The East Wind Cometh
by Supervillegirl
Summary: There's a reason why Sherlock always dives headfirst into danger. There's a reason why he always keeps to himself. And now, Moriarty's return threatens to expose and destroy everything. How will those closest to him react? Post HLV. Sort of AU. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, go easy on me. It's my first Sherlock fic. Enjoy!**

The East Wind Cometh

Prologue

"Well, if he is, he'd better wrap up warm," said Dr. John Watson, his steely brown eyes watching as the private jet made its approach towards the runway in front of them. A hint of a smile tugged at his face as his wife Mary turned to watch the plane land as well. "There's an east wind coming."

Despite the horror he felt at the consulting criminal James Moriarty's possible return, John couldn't help the elation he felt at this strange and sudden turn of events. Yes, Moriarty—or at least one of his lieutenants—was about to wreak havoc on their lives and all of London, but if that was what kept his friend from leaving the country, he would somewhat gladly accept it.

Even so, John couldn't shake the ominous foreboding he had felt since Mycroft had shown them Moriarty's cable hack. The last time the mad man had surfaced, he had nearly taken his best friend down with him. In a way, he had. John had lived two years believing Sherlock was dead. He had barely survived Sherlock's fake suicide. He didn't know if he could make it if Moriarty finished Sherlock for real this time.

The sound of jet engines whining as they shut down drew John's attention back to the plane as it came to a stop on the tarmac. Mycroft Holmes waited a moment before lifting the tip of his umbrella from the pavement next to the black town car and began heading towards the plane. John took the government official's cue and placed his hand on the small of Mary's back, leading the two of them towards the jet.

The three of them were about five hundred yards away when the door of the jet finally opened, and one of Mycroft's men appeared, easing the hatch down and descending the stairs. After a moment, Sherlock Holmes emerged, wrapping his traditional blue scarf around his neck and knotting it and quickly exiting the plane. He squinted in the sunlight that had come out as he wrapped his Belstaff coat around him, heading swiftly their way. The familiar sight of the consulting detective ready and eager for his latest case, Belstaff and scarf in place, black curls ruffled by the breeze, light blue eyes alive with excitement, tugged at John's heart; he never thought he would get to see his friend ever again.

As Sherlock approached them, the hard, emotionless mask slipped as a smile began to replace it. True, it wasn't much of a smile—with Sherlock, it never was—but it warmed John's heart all the same. In an uncharacteristic move, John pulled Sherlock into a stiff embrace. Sherlock lightly patted John's back before the two separated, sharing an easy smile at their sudden bout of good fortune—or lack thereof, given the circumstances.

All of it was over in about two seconds as Sherlock's smile dissolved, and he turned to his brother.

"No one's heard anything suspicious?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," Mycroft told him.

"What about MI-6?" Sherlock asked him as they all turned and began heading back to the car.

"Nothing that would suggest Moriarty's involvement," said Mycroft.

"What about Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson?" asked Sherlock.

"They are being moved to safe houses as we speak," Mycroft answered. "Which is where we must now take you three as well."

"No," said Sherlock shortly.

Mycroft stopped and slowly whirled around to face his little brother. "'No'?"

"Moriarty—if it even is him—is not stupid enough to come by Baker Street now that all of London knows who he really is," Sherlock explained. "It's practically suicide to come after me there."

"I insist…brother dear," Mycroft enunciated.

"I need to be able to _investigate_, Mycroft," Sherlock bit off at him. "Not held prisoner in a cottage in the countryside."

"May I remind you that you are still a convicted murderer and are under my authority until the British government sees fit?" Mycroft pointed out. "Just because you are now _needed_ does not mean you get to return to life at Baker Street."

Sherlock gave a withering sigh as he stared into the distance, obviously not happy with that answer.

"Just do it, Sherlock," John told him bracingly. "It's better than Eastern Europe."

Sherlock rolled his eyes a little, still not giving an answer.

"We'll help you with the case," Mary told him, a hand on her pregnant belly. "Keep you company."

"Actually, for safety reasons, Sherlock will be taken to one location while the two of you will be kept in a different—" Mycroft began, but then halted at the glares he was receiving from the three of them. "Very well. We will increase security on your shared safe house." He promptly turned and headed once again for the town car.

Sherlock shared a smirk with John and Mary before following his brother.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in the backseat of the car, hands steepled in front of him and eyes closed as he dug through the rooms of his mind palace. He stood that moment in the very basement of the place, digging through his files.<p>

_Could it have been a blank and a squib? Negative. A blank cartridge fired at that close of a range would have still done severe—if not fatal—damage. Actor Jon-Erik Hexum died after putting a blank-loaded .44 Magnum to his head during a scene for—_

_Focus!_

Sherlock turned back to the task at hand: determining if and how Jim Moriarty could survive a bullet to the head.

_Could he have aimed for a part of the brain that wouldn't kill him? Possible, but not probable. It is unlikely that Moriarty would have done anything to leave him brain-damaged. In a coma, maybe, since that would still solve the problem of being unable to call off the snipers—as was his intention—but he's not in a coma now. Not to mention, why leave yourself in a vegetative state when you can just kill yourself._

"Did you miss me?" came a demented voice from behind him.

Sherlock paid his mind palace's version of Moriarty no heed. The mirage madman was looked down safe and tight in his cell. The most he could do was taunt and yell at him.

_Did I actually see the bullet enter his head? I had pulled myself away rather quickly when he pulled the gun out. Is it possible he turned the gun so that the shot fired into the air?_

Sherlock looked up at a television in the far corner as it sprung to life, showing Moriarty's calculating face, eyes narrowed at him as he stood on that rooftop.

"No…you're not…" said Moriarty, blinking in realization. He gave a slow, slightly manic smile. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He let out a delighted laugh as the crazed smile grew. "You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock glanced down to see Moriarty had extended his hand towards him. He slowly clasped the man's hand before raising his gaze back up to his face.

Moriarty nodded, his face now blank. "Thank you. Bless you." He blinked a few times and nodded as his gaze fell to the roof, almost as though trying to talk himself into something horrible. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out." He then lifted his gaze to Sherlock as the maniacal grin returned. "Well, good luck with that."

Moriarty's jaw dropped as his mouth gaped open, and just as Sherlock was trying to figure out what he was doing, a gun appeared, the barrel pointed straight at the roof of his mouth.

Sherlock stepped closer to the television screen, watching closely as Moriarty pulled the trigger and the bullet went straight through his head, exiting out of the upper back of it. Moriarty's body fell to the roof of St. Bart's and lay still, wide eyes staring up at the sky in his last laugh.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock exclaimed, turning and shoving the chained and straitjacketed criminal—who had apparently gotten free at some point—back into his cell, closing and locking the padded door.

Sherlock turned back to the telly, which had now shut back off.

_So, he definitely ate that bullet. Must be a member of his network I missed, possibly a higher-up lieutenant of his._

"_Sherlock."_

Sherlock pulled himself out of his mind palace and opened his eyes, finding John staring at him in the seat opposite. "What?"

"I said, do you have any idea who's behind this?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged as he let his hands fall to either side of his lap and his gaze went to the scenery passing by through the window. "One or two."

John nodded, taking that in for a moment.

Sherlock glanced down to see John's hand grasping tightly onto Mary's on the seat in between them. _Worried, then, and trying not to show it._

John looked back at him, and he quickly looked up to meet his gaze. "Got any type of plan?"

"I'll figure something out," Sherlock told him.

John gave him a hard look as the muscle in his jaw twitched. "Sherlock, this is serious."

Sherlock gave him a mock frown of concern. "Really? I had no idea. Thank you for pointing it out."

John closed his eyes as his jaw clenched in irritation. After he had taken a breath to calm himself, he looked at Sherlock once again. "If this is Moriarty himself or just one of his blokes, the last time he came after you, he nearly put a bullet through my head and forced you to jump off a building. And now that everyone in the country knows that you tricked him and faked your death, he's going to make sure you stay dead this time."

Sherlock stayed staring out the window. "It's fine."

There was silence for a moment.

"Oh," said John shortly.

Sherlock turned his head slowly to see John nodding a little.

"It's fine," said John, looking off out the window. "Right." He paused another moment before continuing on in a sarcastically calm tone—if calm could even _be_ sarcastic. "The world's most dangerous psychopath is out to get us all, but that's okay because Sherlock Holmes says that it's all fine." He gave Sherlock a hard look before looking back out the window.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before looking at Mary, who quickly turned away to look out her own window. Sherlock's eyes then swept over to Mycroft, who sat on the seat beside him.

Mycroft gave him a pointed, exasperated look. _"Maybe you should just tell him."_

Sherlock looked over at John, thinking of the look on his face when the doctor had learned Mary's secret.

Sherlock gave a quick negative shake of his head in answer. He could never tell John Watson his secret.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

John watched Sherlock pacing the sitting room, hands steepled in front of his face and coat and scarf discarded on the sofa. Mycroft had dropped them off at the place a half hour ago with promises that his people would be bringing supplies and belongings from their respective flats. But in John's opinion, they couldn't come fast enough. Sherlock had been doing nothing but pacing for the past twenty minutes—unless you counted the thirty second break he took to criticize their accommodations.

Mycroft had indeed arranged a moderate-sized cottage in the countryside, complete with spacious pastures, vegetable garden and pond out back. There were three bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a small dining room/kitchenette, a sitting room and an extra storage room. John and Mary had claimed the master bedroom—which held the only king-sized bed in the place—while Sherlock had taken the full-sized bed at the furthest corner of the house. John had immediately ushered Mary to their room, seeing how tired she was and prescribing bed rest ("Doctor's orders, Mary."). And ever since John had retired to the sitting room afterwards, Sherlock had been pacing.

John was trying to ignore his friend in favor of the one book he'd had on him when they had left for the airfield, but it was becoming more and more difficult when Sherlock had begun muttering to himself. Suddenly, Sherlock spun towards one of the small windows, peering out of it with a sneer.

Closing his book with a thud, John placed his elbow on the chair's armrest, his hand at his chin. "What?"

"Look at them," Sherlock muttered disdainfully. "My _handlers_."

John's gaze went to the window, where he could see one of the many black-clad Special Branch operatives assigned to their location. "They're not your handlers, Sherlock. They're your bodyguards."

"Bodyguards," Sherlock spat, eyes narrowing menacingly at the men outside. "I never needed bodyguards before."

"You've never had a homicidal, psychopathic archenemy come back from the dead before," John pointed out.

Sherlock finally drew his attention back to the sitting room, focusing his gaze on John. "Oh, come now, John. You know as well as I do that this isn't actually Moriarty."

"I do?" asked John, brows raised.

"John, he shot himself in the head," Sherlock pointed out.

John shrugged. "Maybe he's a mutant. Maybe he has a mutant in his employ who can heal people or something."

"It had crossed my mind," shrugged Sherlock.

"Well, see, that's—" began John.

"Until I made sure shortly before he was buried," Sherlock went on as though John had no spoken.

"Made sure?" asked John.

"A mutant with any such ability to heal a person—even at point of death—can only do so if the mind is still present," Sherlock rattled off. "Once a person dies, their mind is essentially erased. I have a mutant acquaintance who is a psychic. He was able to determine that Moriarty was, in fact, gone. There was no bringing him back."

A chime sounded in the room, and Sherlock pulled his mobile phone out of his trousers' pocket, taking a glance at the screen.

"Speaking of, he just confirmed that Moriarty's body is still in his coffin," said Sherlock as he quickly typed out a reply. "Can't be him."

"So…one of his lieutenants that you missed?" said John.

"It wouldn't be that hard to put together an audio file from pieces of phone conversations—" Sherlock abruptly cut himself off and looked back up at John, frowning. "That _I _missed? In case you forgot, I was called back to London to stop a tube bomb from blowing up Parliament!"

"Right, how could I forget?" John muttered, recalling the all-too-unforgettable scene in the tube carriage compartment where the bomb had come to life and then Sherlock had pretended he couldn't shut it off just to get a rise out of him.

"A terrorist threat was a bit more daunting than a possible loose end in Moriarty's network," Sherlock went on.

"Well, now they're back, and they're probably narked," said John. "If you couldn't find them when you were presumed dead, how are you going to track them down when they're ready for you?"

Sherlock stayed silent, and John gave up on him after a full two minutes of no response. He went back to his book with a sigh, looking but not really reading. He was too busy thinking over their situation.

Even though Sherlock dismissed it, it **was** a possibility for Moriarty to have mutants working for him, right? It would explain how he was able to do some of the things he did, how he was able to worm his way into every little nook and cranny of London.

John had never really given the whole mutant situation any thought. He had never really been friends with or hung out with one. Not that he would know if he had. With all the persecution against mutants, who would admit to being one? Sure, he had come across one or two through the years: an old friend from Uni who could run faster than the speed of light, a soldier in Afghanistan who had lfited an entire Humvee off of a fallen comrade. But it wasn't until recently that he had found out that it was all closer to home than he had known.

It had all come to a head when Magnusson had threatened to expose Mary's secret. She had been employed as a spy and assassin for her mutant ability to shapeshift. She could imitate anyone and everyone, down to the last bit of their DNA. Unfortunately for her, it was no longer safe to use her abilities due to the baby. And, true, John had been shocked and surprised at first, but once he had gotten over the fact that his wife had lied to him, he had to admit that he was rather looking forward to seeing her mutant ability for himself.

However, Mary's duplicity had messed with his trust issues. He had slowly started getting over them with the help of Sherlock over the years that they had been flatmates, but when he had found out his best friend had lied to him by faking his death, it had cut deep. Thankfully, he'd had Mary—and, yes, Sherlock—to mend that pain. And then he had found out about Mary. And now…now John was a mess. He couldn't help but wonder how many more of his friends were harboring mutant abilities?

* * *

><p>Sherlock glanced down at his phone, which displayed a text he had just received.<p>

**Yes, I'm fine. Bit shaken, though. –Molly**

Sherlock quickly shot off a reply.

**Apologies for my brother. He doesn't excel at manners. –SH**

Another text alert pinged at him.

**How long will this be for? Mycroft didn't say much. –GL**

Sherlock smirked as he replied.

**He never does. Not sure, but shouldn't be too long. –SH**

_Cling!_

**Is everyone alright? –Mrs. Hudson**

**John and Mary are with me. Molly and Lestrade are in contact. –SH**

_Cling!_

**Like brother, like brother, huh? –Molly**

Sherlock winced at the small, cautious smile Molly was probably giving to her phone.

**Don't make jokes, Molly. –SH**

He could picture the blush creeping across Molly's face when she read it.

**Please keep me updated. I don't imagine your brother will be talking to us much. –Mrs. Hudson**

**How long is 'shouldn't be long'? –GL**

**Not sure. –SH**

**You're as bad as your brother. –GL**

Finishing up the three text conversations, he put his phone back into his pocket and seated himself on the sofa, steepling his fingers once again and staring absently into the fire. Since he now had confirmation that Moriarty was still dead and re-buried, he needed a plan of action as to how to draw their bad guy out.

_Wait for them to make a move?_

_Negative. That could take weeks._

_Press conference?_

_Improbable. Too many civilians present should he make his move._

_Spread word through my homeless network and then wait for him at Baker Street?_

That seemed to be the best option to choose from. After all, it wasn't like Moriarty's men would really hurt him.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John staring at him.

"Don't," said John.

Sherlock frowned. "Don't what?"

"I know that look," John told him, leaning forward in the chair and putting his elbows on his legs. "That's your 'I've got a plan' look. I hate that look."

"You would prefer me to not have a plan at all?" Sherlock inquired.

"There are only two times when you have a plan: in a bad situation that you need to get out of and trying to reel the criminal in," said John. "Usually, in the latter, your plan is followed by diving headfirst into danger."

"Don't exaggerate, John," said Sherlock.

John's brows rose. "Oh, I'm exaggerating." He held a hand up and began ticking their past cases off on his fingers. "Your plan to meet the cabbie outside Angelo's ended in a rooftop chase and diving in front of the cab. Your plan to snoop—by yourself—through Soo Lin's flat ended with a Chinese smuggler nearly strangling you. Your plan to meet Moriarty in secret at the pool ended with us almost blowing up. Your—"

"I get your point, John," Sherlock grumbled.

"No, you don't," John emphasized. "You never do."

"John—" Sherlock began, rolling his eyes down towards the floor.

"No, listen to me," John said sternly.

Sherlock looked up at him, seeing how serious his friend was in that moment. He gave a small nod, looking him in the eye.

"The last time you delved into Moriarty's game, you jumped off a building. And yes, I know, it was all part of the plan," John interrupted before Sherlock could. "But you have no idea what the rest of us went through. I'm not trying to belittle all the work you did those two years or whatever you went through, but you have got to start thinking. You can't keep up this 'I laugh in the face of danger' routine forever. One of these days, someone just might get a lucky shot in, and there won't be a chance to go back and try again."

Sherlock stared at him as he gave him a long, hard look.

"Promise me, Sherlock," John said. "Promise me you will be careful."

Sherlock continued to stare at him before giving him a quick nod. "Promise."

John nodded, searching for the sincerity in the detective's eyes. Apparently finding it, John pulled himself to his feet and headed off to the adjoining kitchen.

Sherlock watched the army doctor pulling out a couple mugs as he began to make them some tea.

_I'm sorry, John. I can't keep that promise._

**Yes, this takes place in the X-Men universe. However, it is not a crossover since the actual X-Men will not be in it.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

**Okay, so, this chapter was supposed to end a little more into the story than it did. However, when I started the beginning of this chapter, this fluffy piece of eye candy just came out, so I had to end it where it was or it was be twice as long.**

* * *

><p>John quietly stepped into the bedroom, easing the door closed behind him. Mary lay asleep on the bed, her hand resting on her rounded belly. John smiled as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his legs onto the mattress and leaning back onto his elbow. He watched his wife as she slept, glancing down at their unborn child nestled inside her.<p>

_God, how did I get so lucky? _John wondered, sliding his hand over her stomach.

Mary's hand moved, sliding up to his and entwining their fingers. Her eyes opened to find John smiling at her. "Morning."

John's smile widened. "More like afternoon."

"Oh, right," said Mary, remembering that it had been the middle of the day when she had fallen asleep.

"You two doing okay?" John asked.

"Bit peckish," Mary replied.

"Well, dinner's in the oven," John reassured. "Lasagna and garlic bread."

"Extra cheese?" asked Mary hopefully.

John chuckled. "Extra cheese."

"How's Sherlock doing?"

John sighed, gazing out the window before looking back at her. "Sherlock is…" he shrugged, "well, Sherlock."

"Dying of boredom, then," nodded Mary.

"Most definitely," said John. He gave his wife a pleading, hopeful look. "Come save me?"

Mary appeared to ponder the question for a moment before giving a shrug. "Yeah, alright."

John moved his hands to Mary's own to help her up when suddenly Mary froze, her hands clasping just a little tighter onto John's grip.

"What?" John asked frantically. "What's wrong?"

"She kicked…"

John's eyes widened in joy. "She kicked?"

Mary nodded excitedly. "She kicked!" She quickly dragged his hand to the side of her stomach, holding it in place.

They both waited for what seemed like forever before a small thump hit their joined hands. John's delighted gaze shot back up to Mary as he laughed breathlessly with her, literally speechless. He placed his other hand on the back of her neck, placing a kiss on her forehead.

"That's amazing!" John finally exclaimed, laughing again as the baby kicked once more.

"He should be here for this," Mary said, knowing it was about time they told him.

John smiled and nodded, turning his head towards the door. "Sherlock!"

They both heard a muffled thud followed by hurried footsteps before the bedroom door was thrown open, a wide-eyed and harried Sherlock standing in the doorway.

John smiled up at him, his and his wife's hands still on Mary's belly. "You've got to feel this!"

Sherlock's worried expression turned into an exasperated one. "You don't just start shouting in the middle of a red alert lockdown, John!"

"Sorry, but you've got to feel this," John told him, easing back a little to give Sherlock room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You interrupted me for this?"

"Interrupted what?" said John. "Your smashing brood session?" He held out his hand towards his best friend.

Sherlock stood staring at him for a moment before grudgingly stepping forward and offering his hand. John took hold of the detective's wrist and placed it just beside Mary's hand on her stomach before releasing it. There was a wait of about three seconds before Sherlock felt the kick against his palm. John watched as his friend's mouth twitched at the corner and his eyes fluttered a bit. He looked down at Mary's stomach for a moment before nodding and removing his hand.

"Wow, fascinating," Sherlock intoned with an indifferent look on his face. "Your baby is kicking…just like every other baby on the planet. Now, can I get back to my 'brood session'?"

John just kept on smiling; not even Sherlock Holmes could ruin this moment for him. "The baby's not just kicking, Sherlock. Your goddaughter is saying hello."

"I'd be a lot more impressed if she actually managed to say it," said Sherlock as he turned back towards the hall.

John wrapped an arm around Mary, watching his friend and just waiting for the moment.

Sherlock suddenly stopped in the doorway and slowly turned to face them, eyes narrowed in a confused frown. "My what?"

John gave him a smirk. "You heard me."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before his eyes slid over to Mary.

Mary gave him a nod. "Yeah, you **did** hear him."

Sherlock stared at the two of them, not making any type of response whatsoever.

Mary leaned over slightly towards John. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry," John reassured her. "He did the same thing when I asked him to be best man. Give him a minute."

After another few seconds of Sherlock's stare, he finally blinked and opened his mouth to speak.

"You…want _me_…to be her godfather?" Sherlock asked, frown still in place.

"Yeah, of course," John told him.

"We can't think of anyone else she'd be safer with," Mary told him. "Or who would love her more."

Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor, his confused frown evening out into an uncertain one. "I'm not exactly the right person to—"

"You're the perfect person," John insisted. "You know you are."

Sherlock looked up at them, and all three of them were remembering his vow at the Watsons' wedding reception.

"_Mary and John, whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on, I swear I will always be there—_always—_for all three of you."_

Sherlock straightened and gave them a small smile. "Then I won't let you down." He abruptly turned and headed back out towards the sitting room.

John shared a kiss with Mary and then helped her up from the bed, following her out to the sitting room. They found Sherlock righting an end table he had apparently knocked over in his rush to get to them.

"Anything broken?" John asked.

"Who cares?" Sherlock brushed off. "None of it's ours."

John shook his head as he hurried to situate a throw pillow against the back of the armchair. Mary eased down into it, and John headed towards the kitchen to check on dinner.

"Has your brother got any news yet?" Mary asked the detective, who had begun pacing the sitting room.

"None," Sherlock said. He made a vague gesture towards the corner of the room without even looking. "His people did drop off our belongings."

Mary followed his aimless wave and found two piles of suitcases and boxes along the wall by the front door, one a bit bigger than the other.

Mary frowned, glancing from the pile topped with a violin case to said violinist. "You haven't touched any of your things."

"Obviously," Sherlock answered, still pacing.

"Even though you're beyond bored," Mary pointed out.

"Mm."

"And it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you think you may not be here long, so why bother?" She gave a cheeky little smile in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock came to a sudden stop, frowning over at her. "You assume that because I haven't unpacked, it must mean that I plan on running away."

Mary gave him a knowing smirk. "Does it?"

Sherlock stared at her before rolling his eyes and crossing to his pile of boxes, flipping the latches on the case and pulling his violin and bow out. He turned towards Mary, holding them out to his sides. "Happy now?"

Mary shrugged, propping open a book in her lap. "It's a start." She turned her attention to the book.

Sherlock propped the violin onto his collarbone, pinning it down with his chin, and brought the bow to the strings. As he began the piece he had selected at random, he vaguely registered that it was the waltz he had written for John and Mary. It was certainly appropriate; his mind was currently absorbed with planning his latest attempt to spare John and Mary. For a self-proclaimed sociopath, he sure had let his heart dictate his mind quite a lot lately.

John had been the first one to worm his way past the cold, detached exterior. He hadn't thought that would be the case at first, but John had caught him so off guard on their first case when he had declared Sherlock's long-winded deduction as "amazing." No one had ever thought he was anything but a rude, obnoxious, selfish arsehole. But John…John had seen past the mask to the true man behind the mind. He had been Sherlock's first best friend.

After John had become his flatmate at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had slowly allowed others to share space alongside him in his heart. Greg Lestrade was an obvious choice. He had been the one to trust in Sherlock's methods and give him a chance. Mrs. Hudson, of course, would always hold a special place; she had become almost like a mother to Sherlock. Mary went without saying. If she was important to John, she was important to Sherlock. And Sherlock didn't mind admitting that Mary had sort of become like a sister to him. And then Molly. Molly was—

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

With a screech of discordant notes, Sherlock abruptly slid the bow from the strings, startled out of his mind palace. He glanced around as the annoying beep continued to sound from the kitchen. His gaze fell on the clock on the mantelpiece to find that forty-five minutes had passed, and like usual, his body had gone on autopilot as his mind busied itself.

"Sherlock, can you get dinner ready?" John called down the hall from behind the closed bathroom door.

"What?" Sherlock called back.

"You just have to set it out," John told him. "It's all ready."

Sherlock was about to come back with a "Why me?" response, but quickly realized the futility in that. John was clearly preoccupied, and he wasn't about to force a woman—a pregnant woman, nonetheless—to fix their dinner.

Sherlock laid his violin upon the sofa and headed off for the kitchen to shut up that infernal beeping.

* * *

><p>John walked out of the bathroom, combing his fingers through his newly washed hair. The smell of garlic bread hit his nostrils, and his stomach gave an unpleasant growl. He hadn't realized how hungry he had been what with the busy first day at the cottage safe house. But now, he could really go for some good nosh.<p>

John entered the sitting room to find Mary absorbed in a book in front of the fireplace. "Is the concert over?"

Mary smiled up at him. "I think he was lost in thought."

"Well, Mrs. Watson, shall we?" John asked, holding a hand out to her.

Mary clasped onto his hand as he helped her to her feet. They headed over towards the kitchen, freezing in place at the sight of the dining table.

The lasagna and garlic bread had been placed in the center of the table, a small pile of napkins situated in between them. Generous helpings of each item were heaped onto the plates of the three place settings—

_Wait, _thought John, catching himself. _Three?_

He glanced up at Sherlock as he placed the final glass of water on the table. "Three?"

Sherlock glanced up at them. "Hm?"

John pointed out the third plate of food on the table. "You set out three."

Sherlock glanced down at the table. "You can count, John. Good form."

_Why does he always do that? _John wondered, frustrated.

"You're eating?" John asked.

"Once again, brilliant deduction."

John's jaw clenched dangerously, trying to ignore his friend's sarcasm. "You never eat on a case."

"I do make exception on rare, special occasions," Sherlock informed him.

John frowned. "Special?"

Sherlock sighed in irritation. "I know your memory isn't as good as mine, but surely you remember how I was almost given a lifetime exile not six hours ago."

John's frown morphed into a stare. "Shouldn't you wait till you get home to celebrate your homecoming? You know, with friends and family and whatnot?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Why?"

John shook his head quickly. "Nothing. Never mind." He stepped up to the table, pulling Mary's chair back so she could sit down.

"Sherlock, this looks great," Mary told him.

"Yeah, this is good, mate," John complemented as he took his own seat next to her.

Sherlock sat at the table across from them. "You say that as if I'm incapable of proper etiquette."

John and Mary gave him a look.

"Don't answer that," Sherlock brushed off before turning towards his meal.

John and Mary exchanged smiles as they dug into their own food. It was almost pleasant, in a way. For the moment, they could forget the looming danger and just pretend it was a normal day. Well, normal for a sociopathic detective, an adrenaline-junkie ex-army doctor and a master spy and assassin-turned-housewife.

_Cling!_

Sherlock dug into the pocket of his trousers, pulling his phone out to read the text message he had just received.

**Happy Homecoming! –Molly**

Sherlock gave a slight smile at this one woman who knew him better than anyone despite his attempts to keep her at arms' length. He typed out a quick reply.

"Who is it?"

Sherlock glanced up at John as he hit "Send." "Hm?"

John pointed at his phone. "Who is it?"

"Mm, no one," Sherlock replied as he set his phone on the corner of the table.

As the three friends went back to dinner, neither of them paid any mind to the text reply displayed on Sherlock's phone.

**Good to be back. –SH**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

John placed the last plate into the cupboards over the kitchen counters before hanging the dish towel from the oven handle. He felt a hand on his back and turned to see Mary standing next to him.

Mary smiled and gave him a kiss. "Thanks for cleaning up."

John turned to wrap his arms around her waist, hers moving to encircle his neck. "It's my job to take care of you."

Mary smiled and gave him another kiss.

John broke away from her. "Besides, what was I gonna do? Rely on Sherlock for the household chores? We'd be up to our eyeballs in moldy dishes, monster dust bunnies and clutter worthy of a master hoarder."

Mary giggled as John pulled her close, hugging her. "He was a rubbish flatmate, wasn't he?"

John laughed. "Yeah, I think I took Mrs. Hudson for granted."

"Well, hopefully, it won't be for long," said Mary as they pulled apart. "Moriarty or not, Sherlock has a decent track record."

"You're right about that," said John. "I ever tell you about our first case?"

Mary nodded. "And I read your blog."

"Four serial suicides over four months, they call Sherlock in, and he's got it solved in five hours," said John.

"Four, John," Sherlock's voice called softly from the living room.

Mary giggled again as John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"You notice how he only comes out of his mind palace to correct someone?" John muttered, taking his wife's hand and leading her to the other room.

Sherlock sat in the armchair by the fire, staring intently at his mobile phone as he typed on it.

"Mycroft?" John asked, coming to a stop in the doorway.

"Homeless network," Sherlock muttered. "I have them keeping an eye on London, mainly Baker Street, while I'm away."

John frowned. "Is that safe?"

"It's why I chose the homeless," said Sherlock, never once taking his eyes off of the mobile's screen. "No one takes a second look at them." He hit a final button and deposited it on the arm of the chair, looking up at them. He gave a slight frown. "You two look awful."

John stared at him incredulously as Mary quickly responded.

"Aw, Sherlock, you say the nicest things," she told him.

Sherlock paused for a moment, his face flinching slightly in apology. "I meant exhausted."

"'Course you did," smiled Mary.

"It has been quite a day," said John. He smiled over at Mary. "Ready to turn in?"

"Oh, definitely," Mary told him, rubbing her hands on her back.

John looked back at the consulting detective. "I assume you'll be up all night."

"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock told him as his phone trilled a text alert. He grabbed his phone, zoning in on it once again.

John gave a fond smile. "Come on." He walked with Mary back towards their room.

Mary headed over towards the bureau, pulling out some comfortable sleepwear. "Everyone else doing okay? Greg and Molly…"

"Yeah, Sherlock said they all made it to their safe houses," John told her, changing into his own cotton pajama pants.

"Good," said Mary adamantly. "I don't like the thought that he used you to get to Sherlock." She flung her blouse down on top of her trousers on the floor.

"Hey," soothed John as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her close to his chest. "I have survived sibling dysfunction, enemy fire, a bullet to the shoulder, a crazed madman of a flatmate who is fond of experimenting on the nearest human being, kidnapping by Chinese smugglers, a bomb strapped to my chest by a maniac, said maniac attacking and discrediting my best friend before trying to kill him, the worst stag night in history, a murder mystery of a wedding reception, _and_ a depraved blackmailer. I think I'll make it through this."

Mary held tight to his hands over her stomach. "You better. Or I'll bring you back and kill you myself."

John lowered his head to kiss her neck before pulling away to put his t-shirt on. "Yes, darling."

Mary finished putting on her pajamas, blinking at the exhaustion creeping up on her. "Guess that nap didn't do much good."

"Yeah, I'm feeling a bit knackered myself," John responded, staggering towards the bed.

Mary walked to the other side, pulling the duvet down along with John. "At least the bed's comfy."

John pulled himself tiredly onto the bed, barely able to keep his eyes open anymore. "Oh, that _is _good…" He pulled the blankets up to cover them both as Mary settled down next to him.

"Good night," Mary whispered drowsily, laying an arm over his torso.

"Good night…" John mumbled as sleep fell almost immediately on his mind.

In the open doorway, Sherlock stepped into view, staring protectively at the sleeping couple, his coat and scarf in place.

"And you're certain they won't wake?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Once again, you underestimate me, brother dear."

Sherlock glanced over at Mycroft, who stood in the hallway next to him.

"I assure you, they won't remember a thing," Mycroft told him. "Like a dream, as we agreed."

Sherlock looked back at his sleeping friends. "Good."

"And you're certain they have received your message?" asked Mycroft.

"You have your network, I have mine," Sherlock answered simply.

"Very well," stated Mycroft.

Sherlock looked sternly over at his brother. "They will be waiting for me to leave, and they will come. You must be ready for them."

"I have done this before, Sherlock," Mycroft gloated smugly.

Sherlock gave a nod before he turned his gaze once more towards John and his wife, this one man and his family that he would give his life for.

"Well, then…" Sherlock tugged his coat tighter around him, "once more unto the breach." He turned and marched past his brother without a second glance.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock paused in his steps, waiting but not acknowledging his brother in any way.

Mycroft seemed to struggle with the words a moment before he finally spoke. "Be careful."

Sherlock turned his upper body back towards Mycroft, seeing the same stern expression he always wore except for the slight hint of concern in his eyes.

Sherlock gave the same look back to him. "And you as well."

He then turned and marched out of the house, where Mycroft's aide—who still insisted on giving out fake names to anyone she met—was waiting with a black car. Opening the door for him, she stepped aside as he slid in and closed the door behind him. As the woman climbed into the front passenger seat and the car pulled away from the cottage, Sherlock ran through his plan yet again.

Sherlock had contacted his homeless network, telling them to give the appearance that he had returned home. He had contracted one of his lankier, more curly-headed homeless to stay at his flat for the better part of the afternoon. The man was to clean himself up and then go about life in 221B: pacing, conducting experiments in the kitchen, playing the violin (a ratty hand-me-down with a recording of a violin; Sherlock didn't trust his actual violin to anyone else), and shouting frustratingly about Moriarty.

There were three possibilities: people were watching the cottage, people were watching Baker Street, or people were watching both. There was no way of knowing one or the other, so Sherlock had decided to assume the third choice. He would just have to try and confuse them as much as possible.

The man playing his double had just contacted him to say that he had left the flat—keeping the coat collar up and head low to hide the not-actually-Sherlock face. All his decoy had to do now was get into a cab and disappear somewhere for a few hours before returning to his own life. Sherlock knew they would be watching the flat, and seeing that he had left, they would now make their move to lie in wait for him to return.

Sherlock knew better than to believe it was all going to be over by the end of the night. It was never that easy. He was only hoping for answers or possibly a bargaining chip. He was going to use whoever or whatever was waiting for him to get closer to his new opponent.

After an hour or so, the black car finally pulled up to the curb in front of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock got out of the car and made his way towards the familiar black door with brass knocker and number/letter plates. Using his key to unlock the door, he eased it open and then closed again once he was inside. He took a moment to ponder if he should unsheathe his weapon, but quickly decided against it. No need to give away everything just yet.

Sherlock opened the inner door of 221, slowly making his way into the foyer. There was nothing out of place down there, so he headed for the staircase. He kept his weight on his toes, avoiding the steps that he knew creaked. Once he rounded the corner on the landing halfway up, he gazed through the open doorway of his flat, seeing no one on the sofa or at the dining table.

_Doesn't mean no one's there, _Sherlock told himself.

It would be just his luck to finally run across a criminal who had the mutant ability to turn invisible. It was just a good thing that he kept his senses honed. Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he continued to ascend the stairs.

Sherlock eased into the doorway, the rest of the living room coming into view. The first thing that drew his attention was the one thing he knew hadn't been there the last time he had been in the flat: a DVD player.

Sherlock rarely watched TV, preferring to get his news through the newspapers. The rare times he did indulge were usually when John was visiting, and even then, it was only something playing on the telly. Sherlock didn't own any movies, and thus, had no use for a DVD player.

Instantly knowing that this was what had been left behind and no one was actually here, Sherlock abandoned stealth and hurried to the DVD player that sat beside the TV. A note sat on top of it, and he picked it up, turning it over.

PLAY ME

Frowning, Sherlock dropped the note to the floor and immediately switched the TV and DVD player on. After it took a moment to warm up, a black screen greeted him. There was an agonizingly endless moment—where the orchestrator of this whole thing had decided to torment him with the suspense—before a distorted voice began to issue from the speakers, the same voice from the cable hacks.

"Did you think you were the only one with a psychic up his sleeve?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. _They know._

The next second, the screen came to life as the cameraman turned the lens towards a house that had its front door seemingly busted open. Sherlock's eyes blew open to their full width as his heart nearly froze in his chest. He knew that house; it was the cottage he had left not an hour and a half ago.

_John…Mary…Mycroft…_

Sherlock turned tail and practically flew down the stairs, darting out the front door and towards the black car that was still waiting. Ignoring the BlackBerry-addicted aide's startled expression, he threw himself into the back of the car.

"Go back to the cottage, now!" Sherlock all but shouted.

Knowing to trust a Holmes' intuition, the driver didn't waste any time in speeding away from Baker Street. As the car sped out into the countryside, Sherlock was mentally kicking himself upside the head.

_Stupid! Stupid!_

How could he have overlooked that there was probably more than one psychic mutant out there? How? And naturally, that one other psychic just happened to be employed by Moriarty.

_Stupid! _Sherlock scolded himself yet again. _If anything happens to them, I'll…_

Of course, that thought didn't exactly go anywhere. It's not like he could kill himself.

_They'll be fine,_ Sherlock told himself. _It's John and Mycroft, for God's sake._

Then again, neither one of them had ever faced an evil telepathic mutant before. The entire ride back to the cottage was filled with Sherlock's overactive imagination projecting horror stories of what he would find at the cottage into his mind. After all, killing all of his friends and family seemed the appropriate punishment for fooling Moriarty with Sherlock's fake death.

Forty long, excruciating minutes later, Sherlock as leaping from the car as it skidded to a halt. He raced towards the broken front door, barely noticing the incapacitated guards scattered around the property.

Sherlock burst into the cottage. "John!"

Peaceful silence met his ears, but chaos met his eyes: furniture toppled over, pictures on the walls crooked, dents in the drywall, broken glass in the entryway to the dining room.

"John!" Sherlock called, breaking away from the doorway. "Mary! My—"

Sherlock froze as he reached the hallway, his gaze locked on a pair of legs sticking out from John and Mary's room.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, hurrying towards his friend and kneeling down next to him.

John lay on his stomach, a cut bleeding on his temple and a hand stretched out above him.

"John," Sherlock called, laying two fingers to the unconscious doctor's pulse point just below his jaw. Sighing in relief at the strong pulse he found, he looked around the rest of the room.

Mycroft lay in front of the bed on his side, also unconscious, but with a bloody nose.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called to his brother. He was about to go check on him when he felt John stir under his hands.

Sherlock's gaze fell onto the doctor as he moved his head, wincing in pain. "John?"

John raised a hand to his head. "Mary?"

"John, where is Mary?" Sherlock asked him. "What happened?"

John frowned in confusion. "Sherlock?"

"John, focus on my voice," said Sherlock firmly, fisting his hands in the front of his friend's shirt to give him something to anchor to as he fought off the obvious concussion. "What happened?"

John's eyes finally opened, and they narrowed in on Sherlock's face looming over him. He blinked a few times to clear his vision. "Uh…Five guys…One of them standing over Mycroft with a hand on his head…I tried to get to my gun…They…" His eyes widened as he suddenly bolted upright from the floor. "Mary!"

John groaned as his concussed brain screamed at him for the sudden change in position.

"John, where is Mary?" Sherlock asked again.

John's pain-filled eyes met Sherlock's. "They took her. They took Mary."

* * *

><p><strong>Uh-oh! Get ready for some action next chapter!<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

**And here comes the big chapter! The moment you have been waiting for! **

* * *

><p>Sherlock stood at the window of the hospital room, staring over at the bed that contained his comatose brother. Mycroft's private doctor had explained what was wrong with him, but Sherlock just couldn't wrap his head around it. Nothing was <em>ever<em> wrong with Mycroft; at least, nothing like this. Mycroft had always beaten it all back. And now… The doctor had assured him that Mycroft would find his way back to them in time, but in the meantime…

Sherlock's gaze slid across the room to where John sat in the corner, blank eyes staring at the floor. John was slowly fiddling with the wedding ring on his left hand. He had allowed himself a small breakdown at the cottage, but since then, he seemed to be going on autopilot for now.

Sherlock had seen that look in his eyes before; it was the same look he had seen in the cemetery as John had said goodbye to Sherlock's grave. John had detached himself that day as well, not able to face the worst. It reminded Sherlock of himself. And if there was one thing John Watson should _never_ be, it was Sherlock.

"We'll find her, John," Sherlock spoke up finally.

John hesitated before looking up at him, his eyes dry yet red-rimmed, as if his unshed tears were lashing at him to get out. "You think?"

"You seem to forget your wife's former occupation," Sherlock told him. "I'm sure she can take care of herself."

The comment succeeded in bringing a small smile to John's face, and Sherlock gave him a smile of his own.

"They're trying to get to _me_, John," Sherlock reminded him. "They know that you being upset will distract me. That doesn't necessitate killing her."

John nodded.

"Besides, they're more likely to use her to lure me in under the pretense of a rescue mission," Sherlock added.

"Us," said John suddenly.

Sherlock frowned. "Sorry?"

"Lure **us** in," said John, giving him a hard look. "You still don't get it, do you? Your actions have consequences, Sherlock. You can't just waltz in like some lone gunman."

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock told him.

"You shouldn't have to!" said John, his voice rising a little. He paused and took a deep breath to calm himself. "You do realize that your attempts to protect us all do just the exact opposite?"

Sherlock stared confusedly at him.

"Knowing that you're out there, running into danger, it hurts," John told him. "Knowing that you would rather lie to us than…" He paused for a moment, seeming to hesitate at his next words. "I mean, it's like you have a death wish."

Instantly reminded of Moriarty, Sherlock's face twisted in outrage. "Of course not! I don't want to die, John! That's ridiculous!"

"Sure seems that way from out here, mate," said John.

Sherlock was taken aback. He knew he must appear reckless to other people, but he never thought that he appeared suicidal in his abandon for his own safety.

Sherlock nodded, fixing him with a sincere look. "I promise to keep in touch regularly from now on."

"And taking back-up if a case is more dangerous than average?" said John.

Sherlock nodded again. "Of course."

John stared at him for a moment. "I just don't want you pushing me out of this case." His voice broke as the tears finally appeared in his eyes. "Not this case…not now."

Sherlock smirked, knowing better than to get in John's way now that it had become personal for him. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The door opened, and they both looked up to see Mycroft's ever-present aide walk in, her hands curiously free of her BlackBerry.

"Ah, hello," she said, giving them a somewhat fake smile. "How are you gentlemen doing today?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Skip the formalities, Michelle. Just get on with it."

"Oh, so, her name is Michelle?" asked John.

Sherlock frowned over at him, not really sure how John didn't know her name. "Yes."

John stared between the two of them before shrugging it off and shaking his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Sherlock quickly turned his attention back to Michelle, who for some reason was giving John an amused smirk. "Well?"

Michelle moved her gaze back to Sherlock, straightening up and slipping back into her professional manner. "You should know that Mr. Holmes had a contingency plan in place should anything ever happen to him, temporary or otherwise. In both instances, he has chosen a surrogate to act in his stead until he is either on the mend or his replacement has been elected."

Just as Sherlock was beginning to suspect what this could possibly have to do with him, Michelle confirmed his suspicions with a smile.

"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes," said Michelle.

Sherlock's gaze slid to Mycroft, unable to believe it. After all of Mycroft's comments over the years that he would never measure up to his elder brother's intellect, he just hands over the keys to the kingdom?

"Me?" asked Sherlock, his eyes moving back to Michelle. "Mycroft chose _me_ to run his operation?"

Michelle's head tipped towards the comatose man in the hospital bed. "In Mr. Holmes' own words, you were the obvious choice."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, obviously." His gaze dropped to the floor, overwhelmed by this offer.

Sherlock knew he could do it; Michelle could run the government side of things just fine without him. It was more of the fact that his brother trusted him to not run the country into the ground in his absence. It wasn't that Mycroft ever _really_ looked down on him; it was that Mycroft had never actively shown confidence in him, at least not to this scale.

Michelle's voice got his attention once more. "I feel obliged to tell you that while you occupy Mycroft's seat, you will have the full support of the British government, with all of its privileges and…" she gave the detective a sneaky smirk, "perks."

Sherlock looked closely at her, his interest piqued.

"Anything you need will be completely yours to use as you see fit," Michelle told him.

Ideas of all sorts began to fill Sherlock's head as to what he was going to do with this newfound power.

_Well, I know the first thing I'm going to do, _thought Sherlock.

He glanced over at John, sharing a look at him as John seemed to come to the same conclusion.

"Good," said Sherlock.

Michelle held her hand out, a BlackBerry in it. "Here is your new private mobile, completely untraceable. Speed dial one is a direct line to me."

Sherlock accepted the phone. "Thank you. I'll be in touch."

Michelle nodded and headed back out of the room.

Sherlock gripped the phone in his hand, staring over at Mycroft. _Don't worry, brother mine. I won't let you down._

"Guess your brother trusts you more than you realized," said John.

Sherlock glanced over at John, surprised by the doctor's insight. Perhaps he didn't give his friends enough credit. He was just glad John wasn't observant enough to pick up on his secret.

The BlackBerry in Sherlock's hand buzzed suddenly with a text alert. He looked down at the screen to see that it was from:

NUMBER BLOCKED

Sherlock didn't really see anything strange in this. Anyone contacting this phone would be someone in Mycroft's employ and would, naturally, keep their contact details hidden. But it was the photo that appeared when he opened the text that gave him pause.

Sherlock's eyes widened in stunned awareness. "John." He held the phone out to his friend.

John took the phone, looking down at the photo: Mary tied up in what looked like an abandoned warehouse of some sort. He breathed out a sigh of relief. "She's alive."

The phone buzzed again.

John opened the next message, reading it out loud. "'Come and play. JM.'"

Sherlock took the phone back, opening the photo again. "I knew it. She was taken to draw us in."

Sherlock began staring at the photo, trying to deduce everything that he could about it.

"How did he—they—know you would get these texts?" John asked.

"Good observation, John," said Sherlock as his eyes poured over the photo. "Not ten seconds after I received this phone, the texts arrived. This suggests one of his operatives has eyes on us in one way or another."

"Why don't they just take us, then?" asked John.

"It's not Moriarty's style," said Sherlock simply. "They want to keep up the charade."

John nodded and opted for silence to let Sherlock work.

Sherlock's eyes flickered back and forth over the photo.

_Sunrise in the window above Mary. View towards the east, unobstructed._

_Ceiling is approximately eighty meters high._

_Old, rusted pipes overhead. Based on extent of corrosion, abandoned for minimum of ten years._

_Tiny foil wrappers pushed into the corner, suggests the building was once a sweet factory—_

Sherlock's mind froze, zeroing in on those old candy wrappers. He closed his eyes, his mind palace self appearing in front of that disused sweet factory in Addlestone. He gazed up at the windows, staring at them for a long moment before smirking.

"Gotcha," said Sherlock.

"Got what?" asked John.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, looking down at the window behind Mary in the photo for confirmation. "I knew I recognized it somewhere."

"Recognized what?" asked John.

Sherlock swept out into the hallway, clutching the phone in his hand.

John immediately followed him, catching up. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock pulled up the photo on the phone again. "You remember the sweet factory Moriarty stored the abducted children in?"

"'Course," said John as they headed down the stairs towards the front door.

Sherlock handed the phone to John. "Look familiar?"

John accepted the phone and peered into the photo. "My God. That's where they took her?"

"It seems the mastermind of Moriarty's return is a bit nostalgic," said Sherlock as they walked out into the parking lot.

"Should we call Lestrade?" asked John. "Or maybe Michelle?"

"Eventually," said Sherlock. "To do so now would spell Mary's death."

"No back-up, then?" said John, giving him a look to remind him of Sherlock's earlier promise.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Sherlock as they stopped at the road. He turned sideways to give John a small smile. "I have you."

John smiled and shook his head as Sherlock turned and raised a hand to hail a cab.

The entire ride towards the old factory was spent in silence, John amping himself up and Sherlock plotting through every possible scenario. When they pulled up outside of the factory and had gotten out of the cab, Sherlock pulled him aside.

"Remember, it's a good bet that there are mutants in there," Sherlock told him.

John nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"Leave it to me," said Sherlock. "I've…dealt with mutants before, learned a trick or two."

"Yeah, okay," John told him. "You take the lead…as if you don't always do that anyway." He gave a little smile.

Sherlock smiled back and then turned to enter the building. John followed right after him, trying to be as stealthy as possible. Sherlock led them through the majority of the warehouse before coming to a back room. Peering inside, they could see Mary sitting tied to a chair, a man in a dark jacket standing over her with a gun.

Sherlock looked over at John, giving him a questioning look. John nodded back in determination, and they turned the corner and stepped into the room.

"Well, well," said the man. "Gotta say, I didn't think you'd show, at least not this early. But…boss knows best."

"So, you're only a lackey," said Sherlock.

The man's jaw clenched. "So to speak." He glanced over at John to see him watching Mary carefully. "Go on. You know you want to."

John glanced at him and back to Mary. "You okay?"

Mary nodded shakily. "I'm fine."

"The baby?" asked John.

"Oh, come on, John!" said the man. "I'm not a monster. I wouldn't hurt an innocent child…yet."

"Just let her go," said John evenly. "She has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, I think we all know that's not true," said the man, turning to aim his gun at Mary.

"No, don't—" said John, shuffling anxiously on his feet.

"Your employer wanted me, now you have me," said Sherlock. "You don't need them anymore."

"You're right," said the man, pulling the hammer back on the pistol. "I don't."

Mary whimpered as John took an unconscious step forward. Sherlock watched in horror as the man's finger tightened on the trigger. He could really only see one way out of this, but it would mean showing them the truth.

Sherlock knew John was never going to look at him the same again. Sure, he had forgiven Mary, but she was his wife; he loved her. And, as they say, love is blind. But Sherlock… Once Sherlock did this, John would hate him the rest of his life. But he had no choice. He had proved more than once that he would do anything for John.

Sherlock spared one quick, sorrowful glance at John. _I'm sorry._

* * *

><p>John watched nervously as the man aimed the gun at Mary, wanting nothing more than to dive towards him, but the man's finger was too tight on the trigger. One false move, and Mary and their child would die.<p>

"So, you shoot them before killing me?" said Sherlock suddenly. "Doesn't seem like much of a punishment."

John frowned incredulously over at Sherlock.

"It'll hurt you," said the man. "That's always fun."

"Considering this woman shot me, I'm inclined to disagree," said Sherlock. "Now, John, on the other hand…"

John's jaw dropped in shock as his eyes widened.

The man swung his pistol over towards John. "They're both gonna die anyway, you know."

Sherlock gave a snide chuckle. "I knew it. You're so persuadable."

"Excuse me?" said the man.

"Is that why you've always been a private, never a major?" said Sherlock.

_What is he doing? _John wondered. _It's like he's trying to make him angry._

"That says a lot about you, mate," said Sherlock.

The man narrowed his eyes at him. "You don't know what you're talking about."

John's eyes widened even further in realization. _My God, he _is_ trying to make him angry. What is he doing?_

"Sherlock," said John in warning.

"Oh, but I think I do," said Sherlock, ignoring John as he stepped a little closer to the man. "In fact, I think I know more than you do."

The man slowly moved the pistol towards Sherlock. "I bet to differ."

"Then pull the trigger," said Sherlock. "Prove it."

"Sherlock—" said John, watching the gun warily.

Sherlock suddenly darted forward. A shot rang out, and Sherlock fell to the ground. Blood pooled around the gunshot wound on Sherlock's chest, just over his heart. Sherlock's eyes stared straight ahead, reminding John of another day on the pavement outside of St. Bart's three years ago.

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

><p><strong>Please don't kill me! I promise I didn't just kill Sherlock! Ooh, but how did he survive?<strong>

**And yes, Michelle is Anthea. I thought it only made sense that Sherlock would know her real name.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

John stared down at Sherlock's dead body on the floor. He wanted beyond hope to cling to the illusion that he might make it, but the bullet had gone straight through his heart. There was no denying his friend was gone.

The entire world seemed to stop in that moment as John stared at Sherlock.

_Not like this, _John thought. _Not like this…_

"Well, damn."

The irritated voice drew John's attention, bringing his rage forward. He slowly moved his gaze to the man holding the smoking gun. His jaw clenched and his hands tightened into fists as he glared at his best friend's murderer.

The man had the nerve to smirk as he looked at John. "I was hoping to make that last."

John took a menacing step forward to get his hands around the man's neck.

"Ah, ah, ah," said the criminal, swinging the pistol over and pressing it to Mary's head.

John froze in his steps, fear gripping his heart alongside the grief and anger.

"My end game may be over, but that doesn't mean I can't still have some fun," taunted the man.

John's anger grew as the man threatened his wife and child. How dare this man try to take everything away from him?

_No more, _John thought firmly. _No more._

Taking a steady step back, John fixed his gaze on the man, waiting for his moment. He just had to wait for the gun to move away from Mary.

"That's a good soldier," said the man, easing the gun away from Mary's head a little.

John's jaw clenched again.

"You know, he did have this whole new game planned out for you all," said the man as he took two small steps away from Mary, keeping his gun aimed at her.

_This is it, _thought John, tensing his legs as he got ready to rush at him. _Just a little more…_

"But I guess Sherlock didn't want to play," the man said.

He had now reached Sherlock's body, stepping past his legs and moving towards his head. John watched him carefully as he knelt over Sherlock's head, keeping the gun trained on Mary.

_Oh, what an idiot, _John could imagine Sherlock saying.

This guy had just given John the proper vantage point. He was too caught up in his enjoyment of Sherlock's death to realize that Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was now basically towering over him.

"Guess we'll just have to play without him." The man grinned up at John wickedly.

_This one's for you, Sherlock, _thought John as he sprang into action.

The next three seconds happened in a blur of chaos.

The man's head flew back as a fist came up and hit his jaw, his gun hand lowering towards the floor in surprise. An arm wrapped around behind the guy's ankles and gave a yank, sending the criminal falling down onto his backside. As John stumbled to a shocked stop, the criminal's gun was pulled from his slackened grip and held aimed towards his head.

John stared in disbelief as Sherlock slowly eased himself to his feet, breathing heavily from the exertion of his attack on the guy. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head turned slightly to acknowledge John, but he didn't take his eyes or his aim off of the guy. "John, tend to Mary."

John stared at his previously dead friend for another moment before hurrying towards his wife, who by the looks of it was just as stunned by this turn of events as he was.

"You…" muttered the criminal, getting his bearings back as he held a hand to his bleeding mouth. "It can't be…You're one of them…"

"Very astute," Sherlock declared, whipping the pistol forward and across the guy's face.

The man collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Sherlock turned and bent to untie Mary's feet as John finally worked the ropes off of her hands. John knelt in front of the chair as Sherlock made surprisingly quick work of the ropes on her feet.

John placed his hands on either side of her face. "Are you all right?"

Mary nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."

John pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms tightly around her. He closed his eyes in relief before opening them to see Sherlock with the top of his shirt unbuttoned, digging at his chest with a grimace of pain.

John eased away from Mary, who turned towards the detective as well, and frowned at him. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock made no reply, but only dug further. John's eyes widened as he saw the blood trickling from the bullet wound over his heart.

_He _was_ shot? Through the heart? Then how…_

Sherlock finally pulled his hand away from his chest with a wince, grinning triumphantly at the bullet, and John and Mary watched in shock as the skin around the bullet wound in his chest seemed to shift and close up over the bloody hole.

"We should head back to Baker Street," Sherlock rattled off as he closed his coat tight around him to hide the bloody shirt. "We don't have much time. We need to be gone before they get here."

Sherlock glanced up to see John and Mary staring at him, understanding beginning to dawn in their eyes.

Sherlock glanced towards the factory doors as he heard the sirens getting closer. He gave an eye roll at them. "Yes, I'm a mutant. We can discuss it at Baker Street."

"Sherlock—" started John in a quiet voice.

"Please, John, before Lestrade barges in," Sherlock told him, a hint of begging in his voice.

This seemed to snap John out of it as he glanced towards the outer doors, the sounds of police officers rushing towards the building causing his eyes to widen. John gave a quick nod, and the three of them hurried towards the back of the building just as Lestrade's men charged in.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in his armchair at 221B Baker Street, having changed into a clean shirt and his dark blue dressing gown. He had his elbows on the armrests and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, gazing anywhere but at the two Watsons currently sitting on the sofa to his left.<p>

After a moment, Sherlock lowered his hands to the armrests as he took a breath. "So, you have questions."

It took a moment for John to respond. "You're a mutant?"

"Yes," answered Sherlock.

"And you can heal yourself?" asked Mary.

"Technically, I don't actually do anything." Sherlock finally glanced over to see their confused expressions. "My ability is regeneration. My body automatically heals itself when injured. It's an entirely involuntary physiological response. It would have to be, should I ever be too unconscious or near death to do it myself."

"But I've seen you injured before," said John with a frown. "And Mary shot you. You flatlined."

"I have discovered through years of practice and experimenting that I am able to slow or even stop my ability if I concentrate hard enough," Sherlock explained. "Although, I try to leave that for emergencies as it is very taxing on me. For minor injuries sustained in public, I rely on stage make-up: stage blood for the harsher wounds and colored foundation for the bruises.

"As for getting shot and flatlining, I had to force my ability to completely stop, allowing for my heart to stop and then restart again. After that, it was just a matter of letting my ability slowly re-emerged as I 'recovered.'" He used air quotes on the last word. "It was just too fatal of a shot for me to not go into cardiac arrest, at least. Not to mention Magnussen had witnessed the whole thing. I couldn't allow the Napoleon of blackmail to so much as guess my secret."

"Oh, my God!" John suddenly exclaimed.

Sherlock frowned at him, puzzled by the sudden outburst. "What?"

"That's how you did it," said John in what appeared to be dawning comprehension, his jaw hanging open. "There was no giant plan, no airbag, no body double. You actually did jump off that roof because you would heal."

Sherlock hesitated a moment, avoiding John's eyes, before replying. "Yes."

"So, those weren't your homeless network all over the street. They really were doctors and such."

"Yes," answered Sherlock. "The only people who knew the plan were Molly and Mycroft."

"Wait, Mycroft," Mary spoke up. "Is he…"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, my brother and I share the same genetics."

"Oh, God, what's his ability?" asked John.

"He's a telepath," answered Sherlock.

John's eyes widened. "He can read minds? Blimey, that's a creepy thought." He frowned in thought. "Does this mean he's not like you? I mean, with the deductive skills and whatnot?"

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "Mycroft only uses his ability in extreme situations. He views using his ability as an invasion of privacy, oddly enough. Not to mention, it's cheating. Like me, he relies on his mind to read a person. And his abilities don't stop at mind reading. He is also able to control a person's mind."

"Well, then, he's got the perfect job, doesn't he?" muttered John.

"And Molly?" asked Mary. "She knew?"

"She knew I was faking my death," said Sherlock. "She had to in order to provide the body double for my coffin. However, she is unaware that I'm a mutant. Other than you two and Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson is the only one who knows."

John stared at him for a moment before nodding a little. "How come you never said anything?"

Sherlock stared back for a moment before his gaze fell uncomfortably to the floor. The fingers of his left hand began absently picking at the armrest. He finally spoke in a quiet voice. "Didn't seem important…"

There was silence for a while, and Sherlock braced himself for the yell, the punch—whatever was going to come when John let loose his anger over Sherlock's latest betrayal. This was it: the breaking point of their relationship. John had held on at his side all these years, all through Sherlock's attitude, comments, personality, experiments and lies, and now, this was sure to be the last straw.

"You bloody idiot."

Sherlock frowned. That jab hadn't sounded as angry or upset as he had been expecting. In fact, it sounded sympathetic; amused, even. His gaze shot over to John, who was looking at him sadly and yet had an easy smile on his face. Sherlock's frown deepened.

"I never would have pushed you away just because you're different," John told him. "You're like a brother to me."

Sherlock stared admiringly at John, once again struck by the doctor's insight. Then again, he really shouldn't be so surprised. He had meant what he had said during his best man speech, that John could understand a human being the way he himself could read a crime scene.

Sherlock felt gratitude towards this man as he smiled his thanks at him.

"Besides, I'm an army doctor addicted to danger who married an ex-CIA assassin," John told him. "We've all got a little bit of a freak in us."

Sherlock's smile widened as he chuckled. He should've known. When John was loyal, he was steadfastly so. It took a lot to rattle his cage. After all, John had chosen to move in with, solve crimes with and even kill for Sherlock all within the space of a day. Sherlock should've known that there was no greater friend in the world than John Watson.

"So, that's the big secret," said John. "You can't get hurt."

"Not just can't get hurt," said Sherlock. "I'm pretty sure I can't even die."

"Really?" asked John. "But surely one day you will."

Sherlock smirked, raising his arms and linking his fingers together in front of him as he moved his gaze towards the kitchen. "How old do I look?"

John frowned. "You're thirty-five…right?"

Sherlock's smirk deepened as he looked over at them. "Wrong. Another interesting perk of my abilities is that my cells constantly regenerate themselves. Once I hit maturity, my body stopped aging." He took a deep breath before breaking the news to them. "I was born in 1823."

John and Mary's mouths dropped open in shock.

"You're a hundred and ninety-one years old?" asked Mary.

"Yep," said Sherlock, loudly popping the p.

"Wait a minute, so is Mycroft even your brother?" wondered John.

"Technically, yes," said Sherlock. "When his body was nearing its end, he began practicing how to transfer his mind to another body. He constantly has a retainer of comatose, brain-dead patients, should something every happen to him."

"So, what happened to him at the cottage?" asked Mary. "John said he's in a coma?"

"Moriarty's replacement has a telepath on his payroll," Sherlock told them. "He must have caught Mycroft by surprise, and the psychic battle crippled him. I wouldn't worry too much, though. He does have nearly two hundred years of practice. He'll claw his way out."

"That explains why we woke up exactly when that psychic got to him," mused Mary. "Mycroft didn't drug us. He was keeping us asleep."

"Exactly," said Sherlock.

"So…your parents aren't really your parents," John stated.

"They only pretend to be for appearances' sake," Sherlock explained. "They're actually my cousins, sixth removed."

"Does this mean you've had to change your identity over the years?" asked Mary. "Move around and such?"

"Good eye, Mary," said Sherlock. "It's actually easier than you think when you've got a telepath who works for the government as a brother. Mycroft and I were born in Wales. Every thirty years or so, we move on to a new city and take up a new identity. But, by far, my favorite one has been Sherlock Holmes."

"What was your birth name, then?" asked John.

Sherlock smiled self-consciously and then looked away.

"Oh, come on," smiled John. "It can't be any worse than Hamish."

Sherlock looked back at him. "Young." He hesitated, giving John an amused smile. "John Young."

John stared at him before breaking into laughter. "John. Your name was John? You're kidding."

Sherlock joined in the laughter. "One hundred percent serious."

"It is a small world," muttered John as Mary laughed with them.

"Mycroft's name was Francis," Sherlock told them.

John and Mary burst into laughter as Sherlock joined them.

"But that's not actually the whole of it," Sherlock announced once he had reigned the laughter in. "My mutant ability has given me a built-in weapon."

"Weapon?" asked John.

Sherlock smirked and then held up his left hand, closing it into a fist. The next second, three long, shiny metal claws extended from his knuckles.

"Holy…" breathed John, staring slack-jawed at them. His gaze finally moved to Sherlock's face. "You were born with those?"

"Mmm, yes and no," Sherlock told him. "They were originally bone, but a successful experiment coated them in adamantium."

"Experiment?" asked John.

"If I wanted to pursue my ambition to solve crimes, I knew that I would need a way to protect myself even further," Sherlock explained. "I coated my skeleton in molten adamantium, and it became indestructible when it cooled."

Mary stared at him in appalled horror. "My God, didn't that hurt?"

"Worse than anything I'd ever felt before," muttered Sherlock, retracting his claws with a _snickt! _"Fortunately, I have a higher pain tolerance than other people."

"You experiment on yourself often?" asked John.

"Well, that was actually what my whole drug phase was about," said Sherlock. "I was testing to see how much my body could take."

"And?" asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. "Surprisingly, a lot."

John shook his head in exasperation. "I was right. You are an idiot."

Sherlock chuckled as that familiar sense of amused sentiment rose in his mind. His phone suddenly started ringing in his pocket.

Sherlock pulled out the phone, answering it. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, you gotta get down here and see this," said Greg Lestrade on the other line.

"Crime scene?" asked Sherlock, knowing Lestrade would still be dealing with Mary's abductor, and he wondered why he would be needed for that.

"Got a body here with your name on it," Lestrade told him. "Literally."

* * *

><p><strong>Whew! That was a long one!<strong>

**I was tempted to have Sherlock's birth name be Hamish Watson and he and Mycroft are actually John's ancestors, but that seemed a little too much.**

**I then wanted Mycroft's real name to be Rudolph Young, but that also seemed too much.**


	7. Author's Note

**Author's Note**

**Do not fear! This story WILL go on! It just has to take a two week break or so while my family's in town! I will spend the hiatus coming up with awesome plot twists for you all!**

**I can't wait to get back to this story, but don't get to see family often, so...**

**Have a great Halloween, everyone!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Six

**Okay, so, surprise! I was actually able to work on one chapter while my family was here. So, here you go!**

* * *

><p>John sat in the back of the taxi next to Sherlock, staring out the window. They were headed back towards the sweet factory at Lestrade's insistence. Apparently, there was a dead body inside. At least, that was what Sherlock had told John and Mary before she had gone up to John's old room for the night; that was <strong>all <strong>Sherlock had told them.

_It's all secrets and vague answers with him, _thought John with slight irritation.

Of course, he couldn't really be angry with Sherlock, at least not for long. This was just how he was. It was what he needed for his mind to function properly on a case. And John had long ago accepted that. That didn't mean he wasn't allowed to be irritated every once in a while.

However, none of the irritation was aimed at Sherlock's dismissive way of working; it could be dangerous if your partner didn't know everything he needed to on a case. John knew he would get past that eventually now that he knew Sherlock couldn't actually get hurt. It was an odd comfort knowing that your best friend could take a bullet for you and walk away from it.

Despite his acceptance of Sherlock's situation, he couldn't help but think about why Sherlock had never told him. Then again, Sherlock wasn't the best people-reader. Sure, he could tell you exactly what you had for breakfast and whether you had slept on the sofa versus the bed or the face that you bought a new type of razor, but the man was completely dense when it came to sentiment and emotions. After all, it wasn't until John had asked him to be his best man that Sherlock had gotten any inkling that they were best friends.

And it wasn't as if Sherlock had never dropped hints every once in a while.

"_Because the average human memory on visual matters…"_

"_Ordinary people fill their heads will all kinds of rubbish…"_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, sounding bored. "Oh, let me guess: I get killed."_

"_People want to know you're human."_

"_Why?"_

"_I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one."_

"_A lie that's preferable to the truth…Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man."_

"_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

"_I'm a fake."_

"_It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

"_People seem to like it—humanizes me."_

_John looked away from Sherlock's parents. "I-I mean, they're just…so…ordinary."_

"_It's a cross I have to bear."_

_Completely disregarding the fact that his own life was also in jeopardy, Sherlock pointed desperately out of the tube compartment. "Go, John. Go now."_

"_You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible."_

John had never thought these comments as anything more than just that: off-handed comments of how Sherlock's mind was superior to everyone else's. He had never looked at them as possibly being something more.

John smiled to himself, finally able to match all of Sherlock's quirks to the truth. He finally had the last puzzle piece of Sherlock Holmes.

"So, that explains it," said John.

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock as he looked over at him.

John turned his head towards him. "All the times you never eat or sleep during a case, no matter how long the case may take." He lowered his voice as he glanced quickly at the cabbie. "That's why you never pass out from sleep deprivation or low blood sugar."

Sherlock gave a little smirk. "True."

"This is what you were gonna tell me, wasn't it?" asked John. "Back at the plane, when you said there was something you'd always meant to tell me and never had. It wasn't some joke about your name; it was this."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, stunned.

"I could tell you changed your mind at the last minute," John explained. "I just went with it."

Sherlock nodded his accession. "Well, I…" he cleared his throat, "I understand better now, but I hadn't wanted your last memory of me to be a revelation of how I'd lied to you. Likewise, I didn't want that to be _my _last one of _you_."

John nodded, accepting that. "So…what happened?"

Knowing exactly what he was talking about, Sherlock went off on his explanation. "Lestrade found a body at the factory with a note to me pinned on it. I can only assume this is the kidnapper we dealt with earlier."

"Do you know who he is?" asked John.

"Thomas Maverick," answered Sherlock. "Low-time gun for hire. Never very high on Moriarty's list of henchmen. Suppose that's why he was used as cannon fodder."

"Cannon fodder?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded. "He was sent to relay a message before being got out of the way. It's exactly why I overlooked him during my hiatus: he's expendable."

"What message?"

"We're about to find out," Sherlock answered as the taxi pulled up outside the abandoned factory. He tossed a bank note up at the cabbie before getting out.

John followed him, catching up to his quick strides. "By the way, how did Lestrade get here so quickly? How did he **know** to get here so quickly?"

"On the way here, I had phoned Michelle," Sherlock explained in a lowered voice as an officer let them inside. "She must've informed him of the situation."

"So, does he know we were here?" asked John as they headed for the back room.

"I imagine not," Sherlock told him. "Best to appear as if none of this looks familiar."

John nodded as they reached the doorway.

Greg looked over from where he stood with Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan and two other officers. He gave a few more words to his officers and sergeant before stepping over to them.

"Well?" asked Sherlock.

"Male, mid to late thirties, no ID on the body," Greg rattled off. "Gunshot to the head."

"And the note?" prompted Sherlock.

Greg led them over the corner, where Thomas Maverick's body lay, bullet hole between his eyes. He nodded down at it and then stepped aside. John and Sherlock knelt on either side of the body, gazing down at the torn half-sheet of notebook paper pinned to the jacket of the man with a straight pin.

NO FAIR CHEATING, SHERLOCK

John quickly yet discreetly glanced up at Sherlock. The detective shared the concerned look before gazing back down at the body, deducing it for clues.

"Any idea what that note means?" asked Greg.

Sherlock shrugged. "None whatsoever. Although, it's safe to say this is Moriarty."

Greg hesitated. "So, he **is** back."

Sherlock quickly stood from his crouch. "No, sorry, I mean Moriarty's network. Someone has stepped in to fill his role. The question is, who?"

"Do you have any idea?" asked Greg as John also stood.

Sherlock pulled out his new BlackBerry, rapidly typing on it. "Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second-in-command. He proved to be most elusive during my attempts to track him down." He hit one final button before pocketing the phone. "There. My secretary will send you all the information my brother and I have on Moran. Best keep a lookout."

"Secretary?" asked Greg in confusion.

"Temporarily," explained Sherlock. "I'll be in touch."

"Wait, that's it?" asked Greg as Sherlock turned and strode to the door. "No clues from the body?"

"Moran isn't a man to leave clues," Sherlock brushed off. "Body is a dead-end."

"But the note isn't," said Greg matter-of-factly.

Sherlock stopped and gave a long-suffering sigh, but refused to turn around.

"We found fingerprints," Greg told them.

John watched as Sherlock completely froze before turning his upper body around so he could look at the D.I.

"Say that again," said Sherlock.

"We found fingerprints," Greg repeated.

"Whose?" asked Sherlock.

"I just sent them off to with forensics," Greg explained. "Should have the results soon."

"Text me when you get them," said Sherlock quickly, turning and leaving.

John watched him leave before looking over at Greg. "Good to see you're okay."

"You, too," said Greg. "How's Mary?"

"Fine," John answered. "We're both fine."

"John!"

John gave an eye roll towards the door. "Guess I'd better—"

"Yeah," nodded Greg, bidding him goodbye.

John turned and hurried out the door, catching up to his friend just outside the doors of the factory. "Okay, what weren't you sharing with him?"

"Moran wouldn't leave fingerprints," Sherlock muttered, flipping through info on the BlackBerry. "They were planted. Whoever's prints those are could be a clue. Then there's the note."

"'No fair cheating,'" John recited. "You think they know? That you're a mutant?"

"Based on how quickly they got to Maverick before Lestrade found him, someone was probably on the sidelines watching the whole thing," confirmed Sherlock. "Looks like my secret's out."

"That's not the end of the world though, is it? They still can't hurt you."

"But they can hurt everyone else."

"So, back into hiding?"

"Didn't work so well last time," Sherlock pointed out. "Their psychic is going to find us no matter where we are. Might as well make ourselves at home."

John watched as a black car pulled around the corner and towards them. "You texted Michelle."

"Can't trust anyone right now," Sherlock told him. "Moriarty once disguised himself as a cabbie."

The car pulled up next to them, and they piled into the backseat.

* * *

><p>Greg walked into the main office of Scotland Yard, heading towards one of the desks at the back. "Donovan."<p>

Sally looked up from the forensics' desk.

"Any results?" asked Greg as he stepped over to her.

Sally seemed a little hesitant as she exchanged glances with the forensics officer. "Yes."

"And?" asked Greg impatiently.

Sally looked back at him. "You're not gonna like it."

"Why?" asked Greg as he narrowed his eyes.

Sally nodded at the officer, who pulled up the results on his computer.

Greg stared at the computer screen, shocked at what he was seeing. "That can't be right. Run it again."

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced the living room of his flat, analyzing the evidence he had pinned to the wall above the sofa.<p>

_There has to be something. There __**has**__ to be!_

No matter how much he looked at everything, there were no leads as to where Moran might be or what he was planning. He was not entirely comfortable with waiting for him to make the next move again.

Footsteps on the stairs announced John's return from his old room.

"Mary all right?" asked Sherlock.

"Sound asleep," answered John. He stepped over next to where Sherlock had stopped, looking at the evidence wall. "Anything?"

"Not a thing," said Sherlock. "It doesn't make any sense. Every time we thought we had him, he would slip out of our fingers. And now, there's no sign. It's like he's completely disappeared!"

John was silent for a moment. "Maybe he has."

Sherlock looked quizzically over at him.

"Maybe Moran is a mutant," suggested John. "Maybe he can teleport."

Sherlock looked back at the wall, narrowing his eyes. "Perhaps."

_Cling!_

Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone, pulling up the text he had just received.

GET HERE.

NOW.

-Lestrade

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John walked through Scotland Yard until they reached a desk that Greg and Sally were standing around.<p>

"Fingerprints?" asked Sherlock immediately.

"We've run it three times," Greg quickly explained. "There's no mistake. It doesn't make any sense. No one touched that body except forensics, and they were wearing gloves—"

"For God's sake, spit it out already," Sherlock bit off.

Shrugging, Greg turned to the computer on the desk and punched a key on the keyboard.

John's eyes widened as the computer brought up the results. He glanced over at Sherlock, how was staring in black-faced shock at the screen. His gaze moved back to the computer, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"It's a hundred percent match," Greg told them.

On the computer screen above the set of fingerprints, Sherlock Holmes' photo stared back at them.

Greg looked at Sherlock. "The prints are yours."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Seven

Sherlock stared down at his photo presented on the computer screen.

_An exact match… _he mused.

Only one thing could have caused this. Either a telepath had taken him over and forced him to kill the man—

_Highly unlikely. At the time, I had two witnesses with me as we fled to Baker Street._

—or option B…

"You think…" asked John suggestively.

"Obviously," replied Sherlock, reading his mind—figuratively, of course.

"Mind filling the rest of us in?" asked Greg.

Sherlock quickly prioritized the information Lestrade needed to know and turned towards him. "Inspector, we are dealing with a shapeshifter."

"Shapeshifter," stated Greg. "A mutant."

"Yes, it explains how Moran always escaped us," said Sherlock. "Anytime we got onto him, he had simply shifted into a random passerby." A look of realization crossed his face, and he turned his head to gaze around the bustling office. "He could be anyone."

A look of paranoia and suspicion came onto John and Greg's faces as they also looked around at the people in the room.

Sherlock's eyes flicked from person to person, knowing there was really no way to tell who was real and who wasn't.

_I could really use your help, Mycroft._

"Where's a mind reader when you need one?" muttered Greg.

Sherlock could feel John's sympathetic eyes on him, but he quickly turned towards Greg. "We'll need a code among ourselves to know who we're dealing with."

John shrugged. "Vatican cameos."

Sherlock smirked in response.

"Vatican cameos?" asked Greg.

John chuckled. "Long story."

"All right, that works," shrugged Greg.

"So…Moran's a shapeshifter," said John. "Is he trying to frame Sherlock?"

"Like anyone'd fall for that again," muttered Greg.

"No, it was just a message," Sherlock brushed off. "A glimpse of things to come."

"A clue?" asked John. "For what?"

"No idea, but I don't like it," said Sherlock. He glanced up at Greg. "Keep your mobile close." He turned and made his way out towards the street.

Sherlock stood on the pavement outside, waiting for John to join him. After five minutes, the doctor finally emerged from Scotland Yard and approached the detective.

"What took you so long?" asked Sherlock as he pulled his phone out.

"Lestrade was asking about all of us having a get together tomorrow night at Baker Street," said John.

"Get together?" asked Sherlock as a black town car pulled up, and he climbed in.

"Yeah, drinks and stuff," explained John as he followed Sherlock into the car.

"Hm," mumbled Sherlock as they pulled away. "What time?"

John looked over at him, surprised. "You mean you don't mind?"

"Why would I mind?" asked Sherlock, frowning.

"'Cause you hate mingling," John pointed out, a smile starting to form.

"This isn't mingling," said Sherlock. "It's…associating."

John smirked and looked away. "Yeah, all right."

_Well, look who's come around, _thought John. _Sociopath, my arse._

"Besides, tomorrow is New Years' Eve," Sherlock stated off-handedly.

John glanced over at him in surprise. "I thought you wouldn't remember."

Sherlock pulled his phone out, shaking it. "Apparently, Molly thought so as well. Sent me an early New Years' Eve greeting."

John chuckled and turned to look out the window. "So, me and Mary'll be there. And Mrs. Hudson and Greg and—"

"Greg?" asked Sherlock.

"Lestrade," John replied on impulse before looking at his friend. "Why can't you ever remember his name?"

Sherlock smirked. "I do. I just do it to annoy him."

John huffed out a breath. "Well, I'd quit if I were you. I think he's 'bout ready to tattoo it on his forehead."

"That would only succeed in being more fun to get it wrong and making him look like an idiot," Sherlock muttered.

John went back to looking out of the window.

Sherlock glanced over at his silent companion. "You forgot Molly."

John looked back over at him. "What?"

"Your list of invitees," Sherlock explained. "You forgot Molly."

"I did?" asked John, thinking back. "I did. Well, you kind of interrupted me. Of course we're inviting Molly."

Sherlock nodded, looking out of his own window. "Good."

The reply had been nothing more than a muttered whisper, but John had heard it all the same. He watched the detective for a moment before smiling and looking out the window.

* * *

><p>Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the flat across the street. His homeless network had tracked Moran to this address; or, should he say, they had tracked <em>Sherlock<em> to this address. It seems sending out the word to keep an eye on himself with no contact except via text had paid off: Moran was still passing himself off as Sherlock Holmes.

_Cling!_

Sherlock pulled his phone out and glanced at it quickly.

**Don't forget to show up. –John**

Sherlock shrugged off John's warning. He knew he would be done in time for the News Years' Eve party.

He pocked the phone and looked back at the flat windows to see the lights had turned on. His eyes narrowed as a figure moved into view. Sherlock instantly recognized the tall figure and dark curls. As he watched, the figure suddenly shifted, the hair shortening into more of John's length, and the stature becoming slightly shorter and stockier.

Recognizing that Moran was settling in for the night, Sherlock hurried across the street and snuck up the fire escape towards the back window. Glancing through the glass and seeing no one in the room, he eased the window open and climbed inside. He listened closely, but heard nothing.

Sherlock quietly stepped over towards the doorway, peering into the other room. He could see no one in the room. Stepping through the doorway, he was suddenly struck on the back of the head. The momentum sent him face-first towards the floor, but he ducked his head towards his torso, sending him rolling over his shoulder and back to his feet. He quickly spun around, blinking his blurred vision away as the blow to his head healed.

Sebastian Moran stared back at him. "I thought that would get your attention."

"Luring me in," Sherlock told him. "Well done. Except that I already knew that, so what's your plan now?"

"Mostly?" Moran shrugged and smiled wickedly at him. "I just wanna watch you dance."

Moran dove at Sherlock, landing a punch to his face. Moran cried out in pain as Sherlock smirked at him.

"Smarts a bit?" asked Sherlock.

Moran cradled his hand to his chest. "What—"

"Little something extra," Sherlock told him. "Thought it might come in handy one day." He held up his fists and unleashed his claws.

Moran quirked an eyebrow at the impressive claws. "Nice. Suits you."

"Yes, I thought so as well."

Sherlock dove forwards, swiping his claws at Moran. Moran expertly ducked out of the way, grabbing hold of Sherlock's arm and turning. Sherlock's arm was twisted up behind his back, and Moran leaned towards his ear from behind him as he held it in place.

"So, impenetrable skeleton?" said Moran. "That's your thing?"

Sherlock gave a little smirk. "So, you _didn't_ know."

"Knew it was something," said Moran. "Saw you take that bullet and then get up. Just didn't know how. Lured you in to figure out what kind of mutant you were."

"Clever," said Sherlock, knowing he had to keep his healing from triggering itself.

As far as Moran knew, his metal-coated sternum had stopped the bullet. No reason to argue with him. And now, Sherlock knew he could bail. He'd gotten the information he'd needed: they didn't know he could heal.

Sherlock plunged his free arm back behind him, slicing a cut deep in Moran's thigh. Moran released Sherlock's arm as he yelled. Sherlock turned around, putting his back to a window nearby: his escape route should he need it. He needed to end this quickly. He knew he could beat Moran; the shapeshifter didn't stand a chance. This whole thing would be over before the new year.

Moran swung a kick at his side, which he took as he readied himself for the killing blow. The playful smirk on Moran's face gave him pause.

"Fine, you wanna play?" said Moran. "Let's play."

The next second, his skin seemed to ripple as his features disappeared and Sherlock's own replaced them.

Moran smirked at him, speaking in Sherlock's deep baritone. "Gotta say, I'm having fun being you. The looks I get in the street. And the ladies are just lining up for you. Guess they do like tall, dark and mysterious."

"What do you want?" asked Sherlock, holding his stance and waiting for Moran to get impatient and make his move.

"Oh, it's not about what_ I _want, Sherly boy," said Moran. "It's about what the boss wants."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "The boss? Moriarty's dead."

Moran gave a very Sherlock-like eye roll. "I'm talking about Jim's boss, you moron."

Sherlock stared back at his doppelganger, completely blown away. _Moriarty answered to someone else?_

"Did you really think a mere _human_ could bring London to its knees?" said Moran.

"He's a mutant," said Sherlock slowly in realization. "Your boss is a mutant."

"Brilliant deduction," mocked Moran, starting to stalk towards Sherlock.

_Damn, _Sherlock mentally cursed as he allowed himself to be backed up towards the window.

The end Sherlock had been hoping to bring to Moran's operation had just been obliterated by the news that it had never been Moran's operation. He would have to be left alive to lead him to this new mutant leader.

_Who could be worse than Jim Moriarty?_

Moran raised his hands, allowing matching claws to flash out from his knuckles. He glanced down at them in appreciation. "All the times I used your form, I can't believe I never knew those were there."

"I'll bet you there's something else you won't believe," said Sherlock as he came to a stop one step in front of the window.

Moran also came to a stop, lowering the claws to his sides. "What's that?"

Sherlock gave a triumphant smirk before turning and diving headfirst through the window.

"NO!" Moran exploded.

Sherlock felt the glass of the window slashing at his face, neck, arms and shoulders as he threw himself clear of the building and plummeted towards the pavement. He withdrew his claws as he released his hold on his ability, needing speed over discretion. The wind whipped at his face and coat as he neared the ground.

The pavement came up to meet him with a sickening crunch. There was a moment of shock as his body stayed numb before the pain of multiple lacerations, bruises, sprains and internal contusions hit him all at once. Sherlock gasped as he lay still, waiting to heal. Thankfully, it wasn't as painful as it had been three years ago. That had been a much higher jump where he'd had to keep from healing for several minutes.

The pain faded away quickly as the last of the cuts on his face healed, and Sherlock immediately jumped up, taking off down the street. When he was sure Moran hadn't followed him, he slowed his pace, changing his course towards Baker Street. Halfway there, a text alert sounded from Sherlock's pocket. He pulled it out to read it.

**You're late. –John**

Sherlock grimaced. "Damn."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Eight

**First of all, let me apologize. I was watching Sherlock again the other day and finally found a scene that showed the real color of John's eyes: blue. I had written in the Prologue that his eyes were brown. Whoops!**

Sherlock approached his flat on Baker Street, glancing up at the windows to see his friends enjoying themselves. He looked down at his watch to see the time as he pulled his keys out.

_Only an hour late, _he mused to himself as he unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

There was a momentary pause in the party noise before it immediately resumed. Sherlock closed the door behind himself, making his way through the inner door and towards the staircase. Trudging up the stairs, he strolled towards the door.

"Sorry I'm late," Sherlock stated quickly as he pushed the ajar door open. "Got caught up with—"

"Happy Homecoming!"

Sherlock froze in the doorway, taking in the big "Welcome Home" sign hung over the mantelpiece and the five party-goers smiling at him.

Sherlock gave the slightest of smiles. "I thought this was supposed to be a New Years' party."

"Well, some of us didn't get to celebrate your homecoming the other day," said Greg.

Sherlock gave a small scoff as he pulled his coat off and hung it on the back of the door. "Hardly my fault you weren't there."

"Oh, hush now, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson. "Just enjoy it."

Sherlock then placed his scarf on the hook on top of his coat. He turned back towards the room to find John with a glass of scotch held out to him.

"Got caught up with what?" asked John. "The case?"

"Yep." Sherlock popped the p at the end of the word as he accepted the glass. "New lead."

"What was it?" asked Greg.

"Mm…it can wait," said Sherlock nonchalantly, giving a shrug as he took a sip of the scotch.

Everyone froze at that statement.

"It can wait?" John repeated incredulously.

"Mm-hmm."

"You're postponing a case…for a party?" asked John.

"Nope," said Sherlock. "Moran won't make a move until tomorrow, at the earliest. Might as well enjoy the downtime while it lasts."

And with that, the evening got started properly.

* * *

><p>Doctor Molly Hooper accepted the glass of wine as Mary handed it to her. "How's the baby doing?"<p>

"The baby, or the Mummy?" said Mary, giving a tired chuckle as she rubbed a hand over her swollen belly. "She's fine. Me, on the other hand…I'm about to pop."

"When's the due date?" asked Molly, taking a sip from her glass.

"February 2nd," Mary explained.

"Hmm, almost there." Molly gave her a pleasant smile.

"Couldn't come sooner," said Mary, drinking from her cup of tea. "Oh, sod it! She needs the loo again."

Molly chuckled as she took Mary's tea and set it down on the table, watching Mary waddle away towards the bathroom. Molly took another sip of her wine, eyes gazing around the room until they spotted Sherlock standing near the window with Mrs. Hudson. She smiled a little and began heading his direction; she hadn't had a chance to really talk with him in person since the whole Moriarty fiasco started.

As Molly approached, she caught the tail end of his conversation with Mrs. Hudson.

"So now, John and Mary know?" the landlady asked.

"Yes, they do," replied Sherlock.

"How'd they take it?" she asked.

"Not bad," said Sherlock. "Really well, in fact."

"Does this mean you'll be telling the others?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Most likely," Sherlock muttered quietly. He raised his voice. "Ah, Molly."

Molly smiled at them. "Hi."

"Enjoying the evening?" asked Sherlock casually.

"Mm, yes, quite lovely," replied Molly.

She decided to ignore what she had overheard. Sherlock was entitled to his secrets. After all, Molly had her own to hide.

"Oh, Molly, dear, you can pair up with Sherlock!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson.

Molly frowned at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, we were all just talking about who we would all kiss at midnight," explained Mrs. Hudson. "John and Mary, of course. Greg said he'd oblige me, which leaves you two."

Molly felt a slight blush color her cheeks. "No, that's all right, Mrs. Hudson."

She didn't dare glance over at Sherlock. She knew the look he would have on his face: disgust. Well, okay, maybe not disgust; more like disdain. Sherlock hated sentiment and the thought of being in any kind of relationship with someone.

"Oh, come on!" smiled Mrs. Hudson. "You two will be left out!"

"Oh, it's fine," Molly told her. "I don't mind."

Sherlock stayed silent the whole time, watching the two of them.

Mrs. Hudson nudged him with her elbow. "Go on. Think about it."

"I don't need to think about it," Sherlock told her, taking a sip of his scotch.

Mrs. Hudson huffed disappointedly. "Well, you've got fifteen minutes to change your mind."

"I never change my mind," said Sherlock as the landlady walked off to join John and Lestrade.

Molly frowned in surprise. "Really? Never?"

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug. "Almost never."

Molly nodded. "That's more like it." She took another sip of her wine. "So…what've you found out?"

Sherlock sighed as he looked down at her. "Moriarty worked for a mutant, who is apparently upset at me and is sending his right-hand man, Sebastian Moran—also a mutant; shapeshifter—to take care of his dirty work. Which reminds me: Moran could be any one of us; no way to tell. The code word we're using is Vatican Cameos."

Molly nodded. "Got it. How's your brother?"

"Same as yesterday," Sherlock told her.

"Well, I'm sure he'll wake up soon," Molly comforted him.

"Yes, I know," said Sherlock with a little smile of thanks.

"Almost time!" Mrs. Hudson called out as she picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

She turned over to BBC News, which was showing live footage of the countdown in the city. The counter at the bottom of the TV showed five minutes until 2015.

John wrapped his arm around Mary as she came back into the living room. "You okay?"

Mary smiled. "Apart from your daughter jumping on my bladder, yeah."

John pulled her close, placing a kiss to her temple.

Molly smiled at the two of them, pleased that whatever funk they had been in for the last several months was finally over. She watched the husband and wife with a wistful expression.

_Why can't I ever find that? _she wondered.

She had come close with Tom, but it had quickly fallen apart upon Sherlock's return. She realized now that she never had truly moved on; all her friends and family had been right: Tom was a poor substitute for her love for Sherlock. If he only felt the same…

"_Ten! Nine!"_

Molly snapped out of it as the televised countdown began. She smiled around at her friends as they counted down as well, standing with their respective partners for the night. The only one not counting down was, of course, Sherlock Holmes.

Molly glanced over at him, giving him a smile as he gave one back.

"_Four! Three!"_

The couples turned towards each other in preparation for their midnight kiss. Molly looked back at the TV as the crowd on the screen became more and more ecstatic.

"_Two! One! Happy New Year!"_

As John and Mary closed in for a kiss and Greg gave Mrs. Hudson a peck on the cheek, Molly looked up at Sherlock to give him a smile and say "Happy New Year." Before she could get the first word out, Sherlock leaned down while everyone was preoccupied and planted a chaste kiss on her lips. Molly froze as he pulled away, her lips tingling from the contact.

_What just happened?_

Molly looked up at Sherlock, completely stunned. Sherlock gave her a small smile before glancing down at his drink.

_Did that really just…Did he just…_

Why would Sherlock kiss her? Does he…

No, no, he wouldn't. He **couldn't**. He had said so himself many times before. It was probably just an experiment or something. Maybe just getting into the spirit of things. After all, Greg and Mrs. Hudson had shared a New Years' Eve kiss, and they weren't remotely together. But then, Greg had kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, whereas Sherlock had kissed her full on the mouth.

Sherlock smiled at her once more. "Happy New Year."

Molly quickly decided to just accept it; it was probably the closest thing to affection Sherlock would ever give. Molly gave him a smile as he stepped past her towards John. She was so lost in the memory of the kiss that she did not see Mary coming towards her until she was waving her hand in her face. And she definitely didn't see the spaced-out smile on Sherlock's face as he absently brushed his fingers over his lips.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked the halls of St. Bart's Hospital, rehearsing yet again what he was going to say. The decision to talk to Molly had been an easy one, but now that he was actually here to do it, he felt very anxious about it all. It had all happened too fast last time to really think about it, but now, he had plenty of time to work himself up.<p>

He'd meant it last night, though; it was time Molly knew.

Sherlock reached the corridor that led to the morgue and headed down towards the doors, stepping through them. The morgue was empty, and Sherlock headed towards one of the metal examination tables to wait. He needn't have waited long, as Molly was walking back in from the other doorway. She looked up and spotted Sherlock standing at the exam table.

Molly diverted herself from her course towards her office. "Oh! Sherlock!" She stepped over towards him, placing the files in her arm onto the exam table. "What brings you here? Need some body parts or something?"

Sherlock gave her a smile. "Not today. I've come because of an important matter that we need to discuss."

"Oh?" asked Molly.

"Yes, um…" began Sherlock, surprisingly finding himself on the verge of stuttering.

_All those years when she stuttered in my presence and now look what she's reduced me to, _he thought.

He never thought he would care what other people thought about him, and most of the time, he didn't. But Molly…Molly was a different story. He couldn't really explain why—well, actually, he could—but he cared a great deal about Molly's opinion.

Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear it and shoved on. "Recently, a certain secret of mine has come to light in regards to John and Mary, and their accepting reactions have caused me to consider telling more people—namely you."

Molly nodded as she stepped closer. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. Your secret's safe with me."

Sherlock smiled once more. "I appreciate that, Molly." His gaze moved to the floor in thought, and he stayed that way for a good long while before raising his eyes to Molly's, taking a breath and blurting, "Molly, I'm a mutant."

Molly's jaw dropped open slightly. That had been the last thing she had been expecting. Well, no, the last thing she had been expecting was "I love you," but "I'm a mutant" ran a close second.

"You're a mutant?" asked Molly.

Sherlock nodded, waiting for her reaction.

Molly slowly gave a small smile. "Wow…That's…Is that why you became a detective? All those things you can do—that's your ability?"

"No, I came by my deductive skills honestly," Sherlock told her.

He turned and looked towards a set of drawers where Molly kept her tools for autopsies. He walked over and pulled it open, extracting a scalpel from inside. He turned towards Molly, who was frowning at him.

Sherlock immediately drew the scalpel over his left palm. Molly gave a startled gasp as she watched. Sherlock pulled the blade away and turned his injured palm towards her. Molly watched as the cut closed itself. A look of awe came over the pathologist's face.

"Oh, my God…" breathed Molly. She looked up at Sherlock, smiling. "That's amazing…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her reaction. "Really?"

Molly nodded. "Yeah, it was incredible."

Sherlock smiled, relieved. Even though John had reacted positively, he had secretly been fearing the opposite from Molly. Although, he wasn't sure why. Molly was one of the most hospitable, kind, gentle and loyal people he had ever known. There was no way on this earth that Molly would have been disgusted or scared by him.

"That explains how you survived the fall," said Molly. "And why you couldn't tell me your plan."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and I do apologize about that."

"You don't need to," Molly told him as she shook her head slightly.

Sherlock frowned in confusion as Molly stepped over towards her office. She took hold of the potted plant on the desk and brought it out to the exam table. Without the benefit of an outside window, the plant had wilted in the lack of sunlight. It was nothing more than a dead stalk now.

Sherlock stepped closer as Molly looked down at the dead plant and raised her arm. As she waved her hand over it, the plant gave a little quiver and then turned from brown to green as it grew up from the soil. Sherlock watched in amazement as the green stem sprouted leaves, curling its way upwards before a beautiful white lily bloomed on the end of it.

Sherlock stared at the lily as Molly lowered her hand and turned towards him. Sherlock reached his hand out and traced it over the white petals, feeling the soft velvet of it.

_It's real…_ he thought. He looked over at Molly. _She's—_

"—a mutant…" said Sherlock.

Molly nodded. "A mutant."

Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards into a smile. "You…control plants?"

"Not just plants," Molly told him.

She stepped over to the observation window, looking through it to the windows on the outside of the building. Sherlock stepped up next to her, glancing up at the sunny skies outside.

Molly looked over at Sherlock with a little smirk. "Forecast called for plenty of sunshine today, right?"

Sherlock nodded, intrigued by whatever Molly had up her sleeve.

Molly looked back up through the window, her face growing serious and focused. Sherlock looked back up to find dark clouds beginning to swarm. Thunder rumbled loudly as lightning flashed across the sky. Rain pelted the window for a moment before stopping, the skies clearing back to their previous sunny state. Molly turned back towards him, waiting for his deduction.

_The lily…earth._

_The rain…water._

_The clouds…air._

_The lightning…fire._

Sherlock looked over at her with an amazed smile. "You control the four elements."

Molly nodded, pleased at his observation.

Sherlock smiled. "Incredible…"

Molly smiled back, laughing a little.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How is it that I never saw that?"

"You didn't?" asked Molly. "Not even a little?" She shrugged at his expression. "That's gotta be a first: someone surprising Sherlock Holmes."

"Sort of," replied Sherlock.

He had been caught off guard before with Irene Adler, which was understandable; he had admitted to himself long ago that he had harbored an attraction towards her. So, it made sense that Molly had completely blind-sided him. If a crush put him off his game, then what he felt for Molly would effectively turn his game completely off. After all, love **was** blind.

"So, you can heal yourself," said Molly.

"And you could give Mother Nature a run for her money," said Sherlock.

Molly laughed loudly, and Sherlock smiled as he watched his amazing pathologist.

_I can't believe how lucky I am to have her in my life, _Sherlock thought.

Molly smiled up at him, her eyes shining with happiness.

_And maybe it's about time I told her._

* * *

><p><strong>You all were expecting some else when Sherlock went to talk to Molly, weren't you? Ha ha! Well, okay, you were partway right. Don't worry. It's coming. Yes, it's a future Sherlolly story.<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Nine

**This chapter was so hard to write, especially the scene between Sherlock and Molly. I wanted to keep Sherlock's character as Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't just go through a complete personality change. However, I had to find a way to make it work.**

**And then the ending. I wrote at least two different versions of it before coming up with the final draft.**

* * *

><p>John turned as Mary headed back into the living room. "Better?"<p>

"If your daughter makes me rush to the loo one more time…" Mary muttered as she eased down onto the couch next to him.

John chuckled as he wrapped an arm around her. "Sorry, love."

Mary lowered her head onto his shoulder. "I hope she comes soon. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand this."

"You need a back rub?" asked John.

"Mm, no," breathed Mary. "This is actually really comfortable."

"Good," said John, placing a kiss to Mary's head.

The two of them sat watching the telly for a few minutes before Mary spoke up.

"I was thinking of lunch with Molly," said Mary. "See if Sherlock'll come?"

"Yeah, sure," said John, pulling out his phone. He typed out a text to Sherlock and waited for the reply.

They had gotten through an hour of the movie before Mary noticed John checking his phone for the fifth time.

"What is it?" asked Mary.

"I'm sure it's nothing," John brushed off, still looking a bit uneasy. "He hasn't replied yet. But he gets distracted…"

Mary frowned doubtfully. "You sure?"

John nodded. "I mean, we had this agreement that we would always answer each other's texts as soon as possible with the understanding that if we didn't within thirty minutes, something had happened to us. He's usually so good about it; he hates it when I 'overreact.'" He stared at his phone for a moment. "You know, I probably am overreacting. He has forgotten to get back to me before."

"No, go check on him," Mary told him.

John looked over at her in surprise. "Well, Mary, it's not like he can get hurt."

"Then go box his ears for me," said Mary. "Go on."

John nodded and got up, heading for the front door. He stopped a couple of paces away and turned back. "Call if you need me."

Mary nodded. "Okay."

John grabbed his keys and headed out the door, hailing a cab and giving the driver Sherlock's address. As the taxi pulled up to 221 Baker Street, John glanced quickly over the front of the building. Nothing seemed to be amiss.

He quickly paid the cabbie and hurried to the front door. Once he was inside the entryway, his hand went unerringly to the gun in his jacket. He slowly ascended the stairs to the first floor, listening to the sounds of flurried activity coming from the flat upstairs.

John eased the door open, his grip tensing around his gun as his eyes lit upon an empty living room. He heard the noise coming from down the hall, and he approached Sherlock's bedroom, slowly opening the door and preparing for the worst.

Instead, he was met with the sight of Sherlock standing at his wardrobe and throwing shirt after shirt behind him to the floor. "No. No. No!"

John breathed out a sigh of relief, releasing the handle of his gun. "I've been texting you."

"Busy," Sherlock replied shortly. He tossed another shirt onto the floor. "No!" He finally pulled a purple dress shirt out and smiled. "Yes!"

"Busy," stated John. "Sherlock, it's been over half an hour with no response. That mean anything to you?"

"I told you; I've been busy," Sherlock brushed off as he headed past John and into the bathroom, closing the door.

John rolled his eyes and stepped up to the door. "Well, listen, since I'm here, I need to ask you something. Mary and I are having lunch today with Molly. Want to join?"

The bathroom door was flung open, and Sherlock barged past John, going to retrieve his jacket from his bedroom.

"Sorry, John, can't," said Sherlock.

"What do you mean you can't?" asked John.

"I have important plans," said Sherlock, heading out the door and to the living room to grab his scarf and coat.

John followed him. "Can't you put them off?"

Sherlock wrapped his coat around himself, tying the scarf as he swept out onto the landing. "Sorry, John! They've been put off long enough!"

John watched as the detective disappeared down the stairs, leaving the doctor standing there in shock.

_What the bloody hell just happened? _John wondered.

* * *

><p>Molly closed the drawer containing Mr. Cabust and then turned to the file on the table, closing it and heading out into the hallway. She headed towards the elevator as she reviewed the notes she had made so far. She was so engrossed in her report that before she knew it, she was back in the lab upstairs. She jotted down her finale note as she headed for her office.<p>

"Molly."

Molly startled a little, looking up from her paperwork to see Sherlock standing next to the lab table, apparently waiting for her. "Sherlock. Hi…again. You've been visiting an awful lot lately."

Sherlock gave her a smile. "You're good company."

Molly smiled a little, setting her file down on one of the tables as she turned fully to face him. "Will you be working on an experiment today?"

"No," Sherlock responded. He stared at her for a few moments, his mouth working as he struggled to find the words.

_Wow…Sherlock Holmes speechless, _Molly thought. _That's definitely a first._

Sherlock apparently found the words after a moment. "I wanted to thank you for trusting me yesterday. Not many people do."

_Wow, a "thank you" without being prompted. This is a day of firsts._

"Well, you trusted me enough to share your biggest secret with me," Molly replied. "The least I could do was return the favor."

Molly watched as a small, confident smile suddenly appeared on Sherlock's face. It was as though he had been trying to find a way to start a conversation and had just found his way in.

"Actually, my mutant abilities are not my biggest secret," Sherlock told her.

Molly frowned, confused. _What could be bigger than that?_

"They aren't?" asked Molly.

Sherlock paused for a moment before taking a single step closer to her. "The day I asked you for help in planning my death…when I told you that you've always counted…I wasn't just trying to gain your assistance."

Molly's frown deepened, wondering what he could be up to. Was he trying to butter her up with compliments?

_I don't think so, _Molly thought. _He hasn't done that in almost a year._

Sherlock glanced down almost sheepishly at his feet before looking up at her apologetically. "I know this doesn't sound like much coming from me, and it's true. I never gave you any reason to think otherwise."

Molly almost let out a chuckle. Sherlock always had a knack for getting inside your head.

"I always said that sentiment was for the losing side," said Sherlock, "and I truly did abide by that."

Molly nodded, looking dejectedly down at the floor.

"Until I met you," finished Sherlock.

Molly's gaze slowly moved back up to his, staring in shock. _Did he really mean…_

"You managed to sneak your way past my façade and make me see that sentiment doesn't have to be a weakness," said Sherlock, stepping closer to her until he was right in front of her. "With the right person…it can be your greatest strength."

Molly's jaw dropped involuntarily as she listened. She had a sudden urge to pinch herself and make sure she wasn't dreaming.

"But then…life got in the way," Sherlock continued. "It wasn't until that disastrous Christmas party—"

Molly winced at the memory of Sherlock's insulting deduction at the party in 221B four years ago.

"—that I realized that you possibly felt the same. But then with Moriarty and your engagement and then Magnusson, it just…didn't seem to be the right time. And now…now, I have the chance to make up for all the pain I've put you through. It was a stupid way of keeping you out of harm's way, and I apologize."

Sherlock reached down and took Molly's hand gently in his. "I know this doesn't mean much after…everything, but…do you think we could make this work?"

Molly stared at him for several more moments before her brain finally caught up with the conversation. She smiled as she grasped the hand in hers. "We could definitely try."

Sherlock's face brightened immeasurably as he held her hand. "Dinner? Tonight?"

Molly's smile grew. "Sounds lovely."

"I'll meet you at your flat at, say, six?" asked Sherlock.

"I look forward to it," said Molly.

Sherlock smiled as he leaned down and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Don't worry." He pulled away from her. "I haven't told John or Mary your secret."

"Oh, it's okay," Molly quickly told him. "You can tell—"

"No," said Sherlock. "It's your story to tell."

Flattered by his understanding, Molly smiled appreciatively. "Thank you. I have lunch with them today, and I'll tell them everything." She faltered at the implication of her words. She didn't want him to panic at the mention of going public all of a sudden. "About my abilities, not us. I—"

"I don't mind," Sherlock reassured her. "If they ask or if you tell them, it's fine."

Molly smiled again, pleased with his answer. She had been so afraid that he wouldn't be ready to share this new part of himself with anyone yet.

"Do you want to join us for lunch?" asked Molly.

"Love to, but I need to follow up on a new lead," Sherlock told her. He ran his thumb over her hand affectionately.

Molly smiled shyly as he brought her hand up, giving her hand a kiss.

"See you tonight, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock before releasing her hand and heading out of the lab.

Molly stood staring after him for a good five minutes before heading back to her task of filing her paperwork, a hundred-watt smile on her face.

_Well, that wasn't exactly how I dreamt it would happen, _Molly thought. Her smile widened even further. _That was a hundred times better!_

* * *

><p>John walked into the café with Mary, searching for the table Molly had already gotten. A waved hand caught their attention, and they headed to the corner where Molly sat facing them.<p>

"Hi, Molly," greeted Mary as John helped her into a chair opposite her.

"Hi, Mary!" said Molly, a huge, ecstatic smile on her face. "John!"

John chuckled at the pathologist's good mood. "Hi!" He sat down next to Mary, his back to the front of the shop. "You're looking very happy today."

Molly gave a good-humored shrug as her smile grew. "Well, what can I say? It's been a morning full of surprises."

The waitress stepped up to their table. "Hi. What can I get for you?"

"Tea and the fish and chips," said Molly.

"Tea also for me, and I'll have the cobb salad," said John.

"Water for me," said Mary. "And I'd like the tomato soup and chicken sandwich."

"Got it," smiled the waitress, sauntering off to the kitchen.

"Surprises, huh?" asked John.

"Yeah, um…" Molly glanced down at the table for a moment. "Well, Sherlock stopped by today. And, uh, he told me about the whole mutant thing."

John's brows rose in surprise. "Oh, he did?" He chuckled before thinking that through. "Huh…"

_No wonder he was in such a hurry this morning, _he thought.

"Important…" mumbled John.

"What?" asked Molly.

John waved it off. "Oh, nothing. It's just that I stopped by Baker Street to invite him to lunch, and he said there was something important that he had put off long enough."

For some reason, this made Molly blush happily. "Really? Important…Well, while we're on the subject, there's something you two need to know as well." She took a breath before continuing. "I'm a mutant, too."

John's eyes widened; that had been the last thing he had been expecting to hear. Well, actually "I finally got a date with married-to-my-work Sherlock Holmes" would have been the last thing he was expecting.

"You are?" asked Mary, also shocked.

Molly nodded. "Yeah."

"Wow…" chuckled John, "it is a small world. So, what can you do?"

"I can control the four elements: earth, water, air and fire," Molly explained.

"Wow, that's amazing!" exclaimed Mary. "Well…then there's something I need to tell you also. I'm a shapeshifter."

Molly's jaw dropped a little. "Oh, really?" She glanced over at John. "So, what about you? You hiding anything over there?"

John shook his head with a smile. "Nope, all human here."

Molly gave a little laugh with Mary.

"So, that's why you're all happy?" asked John. "You found out Sherlock's secret?"

Molly's happy little smile reappeared. "Um…not quite. Um…" Her eyes brightened mischievously. "I met someone today. He, uh, he asked me out for tonight."

"Oh, great!" exclaimed Mary.

"Congratulations!" said John.

"That's wonderful, Molly!" said Mary. "Ooh, what's his name?"

"Um…" Molly's gaze tracked off to the side, and she smiled as she spotted something behind them. "Actually, here he comes now."

John turned to see Molly's new boyfriend just as someone swept up to the table and stepped around Molly's chair. John looked up at the man's face and froze.

"Hey!" Molly smiled up at Sherlock as he sat down next to her. "I thought you said you were busy."

"My plans fell through," Sherlock told her with a smile. He glanced over at the Watsons. "Hello."

John stared between Molly and Sherlock, jaw hanging open slightly. "I'm confused."

Sherlock frowned as he looked around at everyone. "About what?"

"Sorry, my fault," said Molly. "John, Mary, I'd like you to meet my date."

Sherlock's expression cleared instantly. "Oh, that."

John stared at his friend. "You…asked her to dinner?"

Sherlock's frown returned. "Isn't that what one does when starting a relationship?"

Molly let out a little giggle.

"A relationship?" asked John blankly before giving a little teasing smile. "You?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't look so shocked, John. I am human, after all." He paused and then shrugged. "Well, not really."

The joke finally broke the tension at the table, and they laughed as the waitress returned to the table with their order. The waitress took down Sherlock's order of tea and left again.

"So…you two?" asked Mary as she dug into her meal. "'Bout time."

"Sorry about that again," Sherlock told Molly.

"Better late than never," Molly told him with a smile.

Sherlock smiled back at her. "That's true."

"So, you're really serious about this?" John asked Sherlock in between bites, worried about his best friend using Molly yet again the same way he used Janine.

Sherlock paused before looking over at Molly, giving her a smile. "I am." He scooted over slightly and laid his arm on the back of her chair, leaning in to give her cheek a kiss. He sat back in his own chair, keeping his arm behind Molly.

The four friends launched into conversation, enjoying the leisurely lunch.

Moran smirked in satisfaction at the table of friends, who sat completely clueless to the danger sitting among them.

_You lot are so pathetic…_ Moran thought. _How Jim Moriarty ever lost to you, I'll never know._

John smiled over at Moran. "So, does this mean we double-date now?"

Moran rolled his eyes in mild annoyance. "Don't get all sentimental now, John. Just because Molly and I are dating doesn't mean I'm not still me."

"Ooh, romantic, Sherlock," Mary teased. She looked across the table at Molly. "You sure you know what you're getting into here?"

Molly laughed as she leaned a little into Moran's arm behind her. "Yeah, I know."

Moran smiled down at her. "Good, 'cause I'm not letting you get away."

Molly smiled at him again.

"Wow…" said John. "This is a whole new side of Sherlock **I've** never seen."

The three of them began laughing as Moran joined in with Sherlock's deep baritone chuckle.

_Oh, you have no idea, John, _Moran thought.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh, snap! I did!<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Ten

**So, yeah, Moran has been Sherlock this whole time, but for how long? See if you can figure it out before reading this chapter.**

* * *

><p>Molly walked with John and Mary out of the café as Sherlock stayed behind to pay the bill (he had insisted). "What are your plans the rest of the day?"<p>

"Well, since Mary's on maternity leave, she's headed home to rest," said John. "I, on the other hand, will be working at the clinic the rest of the afternoon."

"Same here," said Molly. "Back to work."

"And then your dinner date," said Mary with a smile. "How'd you manage to finally snag that handsome bachelor?"

Molly chuckled. "I have no idea. Years of throwing signals at him, and when I finally stop chasing after him, he comes around."

"Well, maybe that's the secret," shrugged John. "Sherlock enjoys the chase, not _being_chased."

Molly reflected on that for a moment. It was true. Sherlock was all about the thrill of the hunt. He was never too keen on attention directed at him.

Sherlock charged out of the café, lowering his phone. "Lestrade needs to see us."

"Okay, um…" John turned to his wife, "can you make it home on your—"

"No, all of us," said Sherlock. "Break in the Moriarty case."

John frowned. "And he needs **all **of us for that? Are you sure he's even—"

"Gave me the code," Sherlock brushed off. "It's him. He says he's tracked down Moran to a warehouse, and we have to be there."

John glanced worriedly over at Mary. "But—"

"He assured me no one would be in danger," said Sherlock quickly. "We'll have Molly's handy little abilities to help out if there is," said Sherlock. He gave a little smile. "She's quite the Amazon with the lightning."

"I'll be fine, John," Mary told him. "Let's go."

The four of them piled into a cab, and Sherlock gave the address to the driver. Molly watched Sherlock closely throughout the ride. He did nothing but stare out the window the whole time. Molly could recognize the excitement in his eyes at the prospect of a new clue. He always did get a little sidetracked when in the middle of a case. She wrapped her hand around his, but the most he gave was a quick smile in her direction and a hand squeeze in return.

_Something's wrong, _Molly realized. _He's not telling us something._

Before she knew it, they had arrived at an abandoned storage building and were climbing out of the cab.

"Sherlock, are you sure about this?" John asked with a wary glance at the building.

"Yes, Lestrade said his team would meet us inside," said Sherlock, stepping forward to head inside.

John hesitated a moment before glancing over at Molly. Molly nodded and prepared herself to strike in whatever way would be necessary. At the moment, earth and fire seemed her best bet. She strode forward to follow her boyfriend—

_Ooh, boyfriend! I love the sound of that!_

—into the building.

Even knowing now that Sherlock couldn't get hurt, she couldn't help but tense as she prepared to defend him against whatever might be inside.

"So, you tracked him back here?"

Molly and everyone else froze when they heard Lestrade's voice in the other room. Was he talking to his team?

"So, what, they're using this place as a hideout?" asked Lestrade.

"Possibly."

Molly's eyes widened as they shot up to Sherlock. Sherlock turned wide eyes towards her as well. Molly glanced back to see the same expression on John and Mary's faces.

That had been _Sherlock's_ voice that had answered.

The group of four quickly rounded the corner to find Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson in the next room. But it was the fourth person turning to look at them that shocked them all: Sherlock.

"What the…" gasped Lestrade, looking between the Sherlock in front of him and the Sherlock next to Molly. "Sherlock?"

John and Mary eased away from Sherlock as Molly did the same, staring back and forth between the two. Lestrade and his team did the same.

The Sherlock next to Lestrade stared in rapidly-shifting confusion and rage at his doppleganger. "That's not me!"

Both Sherlocks seemed to have the same thought right then as they both blurt out, "Vatican cameos!" They both then frowned at the other one. "How did you…"

"He must have gotten hold of the code somehow," said the Sherlock near Molly. "John, it's me."

"No, it's not!" the Sherlock near Lestrade. "That is Moran!"

"How are we gonna prove which one is him?" Mary asked them all. "Anything we ask him, he could have just gotten from John's blog."

But Molly was watching John. The army doctor was glancing from one Sherlock to the next, eyes narrowing in thought. He then looked from one to the other as he spoke.

"Who shot you in Magnusson's penthouse?" asked John.

"What?" said the Sherlock near Molly with a frustrated frown on his face.

John looked over at him, waiting for the answer.

"Anyone with half a brain could have worked that out, John," complained Sherlock.

Molly watched closely as John smirked a little before moving his gaze to the Sherlock near Lestrade.

That Sherlock was smiling knowingly at John. "A.G.R.A."

Molly's gaze shot over to John as he smiled, pointing at the Sherlock near Lestrade.

"**That's** Sherlock," announced John.

Molly spun towards the Sherlock imposter to hit him with her powers, not caring if she had to out herself to Scotland Yard in the process. She was going to get them all out of this in one piece.

Before she could do anything, two arms wrapped around her, pulling her back against a tall, lean body. Something hard and decidedly gun-like was pressed into her side, and she knew her chances of using her ability had just gone down.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched in almost slow motion as Moran—currently disguised as himself—grabbed Molly and shoved a machine pistol into her ribs.<p>

_No! _Sherlock thought as Molly's eyes went wide.

"Oh, clever, John," said Moran, twisting Sherlock's face into an aggravated sneer. "_Very_ clever."

"Let her go," Sherlock practically growled at the shapeshifter.

Moran frowned mockingly at him. "Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?" His frown morphed into a grin as he began to change.

While he was distracted by his shifting, Sherlock glanced over at John to try to get his attention. Before he could, Moran had changed back to his own form, and Sherlock quickly shifted his attention back to him.

Moran chuckled. "You lot are so easy. I've been with you all through lunch, and you never even suspected." He chuckled again into Molly's ear. He looked back at Sherlock. "Now, Sherlock, you are going to come with me, or I'll shoot her."

Sherlock stared him down, trying to think of a way to get Molly out of this. He knew he had to take the fall, but how? Moran "knew" he had an impenetrable skeleton, but he still didn't know he could heal—

"Now!" shouted Moran, digging the pistol even further into Molly's side.

Molly's eyes widened in fear as she let out a gasp, and Sherlock tensed, his plan flying right out of his head. He needed to get that gun away from Molly _right now_.

Moran suddenly frowned, eyes snapping downwards in confusion. "What are you…"

Sherlock looked down to see that Moran's gun hand was slowly easing away from Molly's side. But what was really interesting was that Moran's arm and hand were still clenched, as though fighting against an invisible force pushing his hand away.

Sherlock's eyes widened. _It __**was**__ pushing his hand away._

Sherlock captured Molly's attention, asking with an eye squint if it was her. Molly minutely shook her head; she wasn't doing this. And that meant only one thing: there was another mutant here.

Moran grunted as he struggled to keep the gun aimed at Molly, but it was moving steadily away from her. When there was a big enough gap, Molly grabbed hold of the hand still wrapped around her. Disguising it as an attempt to pull him off of her, Sherlock saw a flash of concentration on her face, and Moran pulled his slightly burned hand away from Molly with a yelp.

Molly darted through the gap in his open arms and ran forward. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to his chest. Moran quickly aimed his gun around at each of them individually. Whatever force had been moving his arm had now apparently vanished.

Moran narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "So…you've got another mutant in your pack." His eyes danced all over the room, looking in the dark corners for the hiding mutant. "Clever."

Sherlock glanced over at John, who discreetly met his gaze. Sherlock's eyes moved to the gun and then down at himself before moving back to John, trying to communicate his plan. John glanced over at Moran and back at Sherlock, nodding to him. Sherlock looked quickly back at Moran.

Moran moved his gaze back to Sherlock. "But it doesn't change anything. You come with me, or I will kill everyone." He aimed the gun slowly around at the others.

"Sherlock—" Molly whispered.

"It's okay, Molly," Sherlock quickly told her, not wanting her to try to defuse the situation with her own powers. Who knows what could happen then.

Sherlock eased away from Molly, stepping over towards Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan. "No, you won't."

"Are you being deliberately stupid?" asked Moran as he turned to keep Sherlock in his sights.

Sherlock glanced quickly to John, who was moving with Sherlock to keep Moran's back to him.

"It's simple," said Moran. "With me, now, or they die."

"You think you can manipulate me because you think you know all the moves on the board," said Sherlock as he passed the officers, wanting no one to be behind or near him. "However, you failed to deduce one very important thing."

Moran rolled his eyes as he turned, keeping the gun aimed at him. "What's that?"

Sherlock watched as John stepped up quietly behind him, his arms held at the ready. _Right there…_

Sherlock smirked at the mutant. "Me."

Sherlock took a step forward as though to rush at him. At the same time, John dove forward, latching onto Moran's gun arm. John seemed to struggle for a moment, as though he couldn't push Moran's arm, before he gave an almighty shove, and Moran's gun swung back towards Sherlock. John's grip on Moran's hand squeezed, and Sherlock braced himself for the barrage of bullets.

* * *

><p>Molly watched in stunned shock as the machine pistol fired off round after round into Sherlock's chest.<p>

"No!" yelled Lestrade.

"Sherlock!" shouted Anderson.

Sherlock jolted with each bullet before slumping back onto the floor, eyes closed and blood pooling underneath him.

Molly stifled a frightened gasp. _He'll be fine. He'll heal. He'll be fine. It was all part of the plan._

She tried to calm herself down as Moran finally wrestled John's grip on his trigger hand away. The gun stopped firing as Moran whacked John across the face with it. John fell to the floor, looking up at Moran with a steely gaze.

Moran quickly looked over at the seemingly dead Sherlock. He turned towards John in rage. "You idiot!"

Molly moved her gaze back to Sherlock, trying and failing to keep the tears at bay. She knew he would be fine, but it was just so hard to convince her heart of that. She quickly got a hold of herself, knowing she needed to be ready to help with Sherlock's plan. Obviously, he wanted to catch Moran by surprise. Molly just needed to stop Moran from hurting anyone else until then.

Moran quickly strode over to Sherlock, kneeling over him and roughly patting at his bullet-ridden torso. John slowly pulled himself to his feet, and Mary wrapped her arms around him. Moran sighed as he realized that Sherlock was indeed "dead."

Moran glared over at John. "Oh, the boss is _really _not gonna like that you killed our best toy."

"That _I _killed?" asked John.

"Yes, that _you _killed," said Moran, turning his gun towards John.

Molly discreetly raised her hand, ready to call down lightning, if need be.

"At least, that's what I'll tell him," said Moran. "I know _I'm _not gonna take Joe's wrath on this." He tightened his finger on the trigger. "Thanks for the alibi, Dr. Watson."

_SNICKT!_

Sherlock rolled over towards Moran, burying the claws of his left hand down into Moran's foot. Moran yelled out as his finger tightened on the trigger, the bullets spraying wildly towards the ceiling as his arm flew up. Sherlock brought his right hand up behind Moran, claws extending instantly, and plunged his claws into the middle of Moran's back.

Moran's yell died in his throat as he collapsed to the ground. Sherlock jumped up onto his feet, his claws held out towards Moran. Once it was apparent that Moran really was dead, Sherlock's claws retracted, and he slumped slightly in relief.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed Molly, rushing over to him.

Sherlock enveloped her in his arms, holding her close. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Molly. "You?"

"Hang on," said Sherlock as he pulled away from her.

He eased his collar down and pulled out a bullet lodged in his chest over his sternum. He tossed it aside as he healed.

"I'm good now," said Sherlock.

"What the bloody hell just happened?" exclaimed Donovan.

Everyone stopped and looked over at Lestrade and Donovan, who were staring in shock at Sherlock. Anderson, however, was looking astonished as dawning realization began to show on his face.

"You're a mutant?" asked Lestrade.

"Nicely observed," nodded Sherlock, letting Molly help pull him to his feet.

"That's how you did it!" Anderson exclaimed with a triumphant smile as he pointed at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in irritation. "Why is everyone so hung up on that bit?"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," said John, stepping up to join them with Mary. "It was a giant conspiracy cooked up by the British government and the world's only consulting detective to defeat and psychopathic consulting criminal. Of course they're going to want to know what happened."

"And that's how you did it!" said Anderson. "I had a theory that maybe there was some mutant involvement—"

"Yes, Anderson," said Sherlock in annoyance. "You pegged it. Well done."

Lestrade shook his head. "I can't believe this. Anything else you hiding?"

"Actually, yes," said Sherlock.

Molly's eyes shot up to his face as he stared over at the D.I. _He wouldn't, would he?_

There were so many other secrets he was keeping from everyone: Molly's ability, Mary's ability, who really shot him (Molly had figured that out ages ago).

_He wouldn't do that to them—to me—would he?_

"Molly and I are dating," said Sherlock.

Molly tried to stifle her relieved sigh as Sherlock wrapped an arm around her.

"Really?" asked Lestrade.

"Yeah," said Molly, smiling.

Sherlock glanced down at her to see her relief, and he gave her a look that said plainly, "Of course I didn't. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"'Bout time," said Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned as he looked up at him. "You knew?"

"You kidding?" said Donovan. "Half the Yard was taking bets on when you two would come to your senses."

Sherlock stared at her for another few moments before giving her a rueful smile. "Seems there's hope yet for Scotland Yard."

"So, what does this mean?" said John. "Is Sherlock's secret out?"

He was mainly looking at Donovan when he asked. They knew Lestrade would keep Sherlock's secret to the grave, and even Anderson had grown to admire the detective over the two years he had been "dead." The only wild card was Donovan; she had always hated him.

Donovan stared at Sherlock for a moment before giving him a small smile. "Your secret's safe with us."

Sherlock frowned once again at her. "Why would you do that for me?"

Donovan shrugged, hesitating. "You saved our lives."

Sherlock stared at her, apparently taken back by her understanding. He hesitated a moment before replying. "Thank you."

Donovan cleared her throat of the awkward comradery between the two of them. "So, Joe."

"Sorry?" asked Lestrade.

"That's what Moran said," said Donovan. "That he didn't want to suffer Joe's wrath. Joe's this new boss, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Although, it's not much to go on."

"Still, it's something," said Lestrade. "Alright, you four, get out of here. We've gotta call this in."

Sherlock nodded at him and led the three of his friends out of the building. "Well, that was climatic."

John chuckled. "At least we don't have to worry about any evil doubles anymore."

"Yeah, it's the little things," said Mary, chuckling with the rest of them.

"Sherlock, wait up!"

They all turned to see Lestrade running out to them.

"Something you need, Inspector?" asked Sherlock.

"There's something I need to tell you all," said Lestrade. He hesitated a moment. "I'm a mutant, too."

"Really?" asked John.

Lestrade nodded and then raised his hand. A stone lying on the pavement at their feet rose up into the air, floating up and over Lestrade's upturned palm.

"You're a telekinetic," said Sherlock.

"Yeah," said Lestrade, lowering the stone back to the ground.

"You were the one who pulled the gun away from Molly," said John. "You were the one fighting with me over that gun."

"I was trying to keep Sherlock from getting shot," said Lestrade. "If I'd known he could heal, I wouldn't have tried so hard."

John, Molly and Mary laughed, and then Sherlock glanced over at Molly, giving her a questioning look.

Molly shrugged and then raised her hand. A puddle at their feet rippled and then swirled up in a spiral, growing up into the air. Molly twirled her fingers, and the spiral of water danced around her hand.

Lestrade watched it, giving an astounded chuckle. "So, what, you're telekinetic? You control water?"

"All four elements, actually," Molly told him, moving the water back down to its puddle.

"Wow," said Lestrade.

"Oh, and I'm a shapeshifter also," said Mary.

Lestrade looked over at her. "Really?"

"Yeah," said Mary, placing her hands on her stomach. "I'd show you, but the baby…"

"No, yeah, it's fine," nodded Lestrade. He turned to John. "So, John, got anything to share over there?"

John shook his head. "Nope. With me, what you see is what you get."

"Well, all right, then," said Lestrade. "That's it."

"Actually, it's not," said John.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

John looked over at him. "That **is** the last time you're gonna force us to watch you die, right?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Mm, ninety-eight percent."

"Don't even joke about that!" John told him in a serious tone as he pointed sternly at him.

His glare shifted into a laugh as everyone joined him.


End file.
